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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202571">a heartbeat is a sign of life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/caandleknight/pseuds/caandleknight'>caandleknight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>8 greek loves, Arranged Marriage, Bellarke, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion &amp; Lore), Mutual Pining, Mythology - Freeform, Porn With Plot, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, non-romanticized sexual assault; brief undetailed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:42:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202571</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/caandleknight/pseuds/caandleknight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A parody myth of Hades and Persephone; gods of life and death.</p><p>Bellamy and Clarke.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the heartbeat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I apologize for historical inaccuracies. List of the gods and their counterpart at bottom. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <em>"The soul's ability to nourish itself lies in the heart."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Aristotle</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>.: prologue :.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>523 BC</em>
</p><p>..</p><p>She was born of clay.</p><p>Bellamy was not present that day. He was rarely permitted on Olympus, and that day was no different. He didn't hear the news from Pike, the god of gods, or from Demeter, the mother.</p><p>Instead, he was granted five minutes with Jasper, or as the mortals knew him: Hermes. Atop his simple throne, Bellamy was informed that the newest god amongst them had been a girl. Her hair was golden, and her eyes had more wonder than they'd ever seen.</p><p>Jasper waved him goodbye on the way out.</p><p>For the next five decades, dead souls spoke of how the famish broke with the birth of Persephone. He didn't bat an eye.</p><p>..</p><p>Bellamy watched her grow, in a passive way.</p><p>Her first year, she was in the garden, dancing in the marble fountain. Her movements lacked grace, and yet the marble sculpture started caressing its harp from the centre of the spewing water.</p><p>Goodness, she could barely stand, then.</p><p>..</p><p>(It was all so much easier.)</p><p>..</p><p>The third, she was on her mother's knee in a meeting. "Any thoughts, Abigail?" Murphy asked snarkily.</p><p>Abby preferred her godly name, they all knew, or 'Abby', just not Abigail.</p><p>The first words Bellamy heard tiny Clarke say were, "be kind, <em>John</em>." Murphy's grin was gone as fast as it had come.</p><p>Clarke smiled wide, looking to her mother. <em>Are you proud of me yet?</em> her eyes asked. Abby glanced down at her, and told her to shush.</p><p>..</p><p>In her eighth year, listening to the unproductive arguing—<em>the grounders this, the grounders that</em>—she braided Raven's hair while the goddess tinkered with some scraps on the table.</p><p>It was the year he first spoke to her.</p><p>"Who are you?" she asked in the hall after the meeting. She weaved a crown of flowers between her crisscrossed legs.</p><p>He sighed, crossing his arms. "Hades."</p><p>She paused, glancing up. "<em>Oh</em>. You're <em>him</em>." Placing it on her head, she moved stray hairs from her cheeks. She had heard Pike's anecdotes, seen Abby's sneers. She thought he was a monster, surely.</p><p>Clarke asked, "Do you like crowns?"</p><p>Then, leaving him in her wake, she ran off to dance with the faeries.</p><p>..</p><p>Her thirteenth year, she arrived late to the meeting, with dirt on her knees and scratches on her arms. Jasper grinned, making a hand gesture. Clarke brushed him off. Bellamy watched. It all intrigued him, but he didn't question it. The meeting began after Abby lectured Clarke for her tardiness in front of everyone. Persephone didn't seem too bothered.</p><p>Her eyes of wonder were bright.</p><p>..</p><p>Her twenty-sixth, she still looked eighteen. It was when they all ceased aging, unless they chose to like Pike and Abby. Bellamy had chosen twenty-three with a shrug.</p><p>How many years had it been since then? He didn't know.</p><p>..</p><p>One day, at around three hundred years old, she spoke out at a meeting where she wasn't supposed to.</p><p>Clarke's place at the table had been beside Niylah for nearly her whole life. They were the virgins: Persephone and Artemis. Pike found that to be a challenge. Such a charming man.</p><p>"The grounders are savages," Pike said, slamming his hands on the table.</p><p>Murphy failed to hide his boredom, (as if he was trying). Abby didn't care and Raven slid responsibility on everyone else. Jasper nursed a cup of his best friend's famous wine. Monty tried his hardest to mediate—to do better, as he always said.</p><p>Bellamy grunted.</p><p>He was neutral and uncaring. He embraced the earth honestly. The people though? He was in limbo over them. Senseless violence and cruelty was not something he liked. Thriving within chaos did not mean he enjoyed it. No one ever truly argued with the <em>great</em> Zeus. She was a child, Bellamy thought, who played in the dirt and picked naïve flowers. He didn't dislike her though. She was sweet.</p><p>Clarke disagreed with Zeus directly:</p><p>"They are not."</p><p>It was silent. Bellamy lifted his gaze, shocked to find the soft, naïve girl ripping her eyes into his darker-skinned counterpart. This girl of braids and flower crowns. This little Princess who'd never struggled.</p><p>"Blasphemy at every turn."</p><p>"It's called <em>freedom</em>." Her hands fisted.</p><p><em>Brave, Princess, </em>he thought.</p><p>All eyes were on him, quivering: he scared them. He realized he'd said it out loud. Bellamy shrugged and everyone moved on, except her. She stared at him, studying him. On reflex, he glared, and she raised a brow.</p><p>At the end of the meeting, she was ignored.</p><p>He gaited into his annual walk around Olympus. The hall of gods was of classic Greek. Marble pillars, to a triangular white roof. Statues lined the walls, crafted by Medusa herself. He liked the garden the most.</p><p>It was nice to be around life.</p><p>Like every year, Clarke was there too, running her hands along a rose bush. He paid her no mind, but today she gave him a piece of hers. Her feet were bare, and dirty. Her hair was made of sun, juxtaposing the stick crown of flowers and berries on top of her head, never dying. A white peplos rested on her pinking shoulders, flowering down in folds to her waist.</p><p>"You come here every year," she started, "why?"</p><p>The gods were not the ones you told your secrets to, but maybe the way she spoke of the humans drew him in.</p><p>"I'm not allowed to be here," he looked to the rose bush, the decaying, browning parts of it, "so I like to linger."</p><p>"Defy Pike," she deduced. Amusement leaked into her voice. "I approve."</p><p>He raised a brow at her, reaching out to caress the ragged plant in his fingers. It was stained red, and dark, falling apart. It quivered on his hand, two petals splitting off to drift.</p><p>"I haven't always defied him." Memories of humans stared him in the eyes, begging for mercy.</p><p><em>"They're planning to overthrow Olympus," </em>Pike had told him. Bellamy had believed him. With no evidence, he'd fallen for a elementary trick. He'd killed them.</p><p>"I know," she murmured.</p><p>White fingers tickled his dark ones, sliding over his knuckles to the plant.</p><p>Clarke plucked it, pricking her finger without a flinch. She pulled the crown from her blinding hair, tucking the dead flower in with prosperity.</p><p>It settled on her head, and he realized he was staring.</p><p>He missed something as she'd grown, the snuffed candle of her naïveté. When had it been blown out? She had gone from sticks and bones, to a goddess. She had become soft curves, but her eyes were so heavy. Scratches and dirt stayed. Paint flecks hung from her hair. Heavy, so harsh, was the blue of her eyes. She held her hand over where she had picked the flower, and he watched it grow back. Fast and full. Red petals bloomed on lush green thorns and leaves.</p><p>"Death can be as pretty as life," she said. "It adds appreciation, let's us learn."</p><p>She looked at him like he wasn't a demon, then, like she didn't fear him. Maybe he wasn't quite a monster to her. The gods thought of her as stupid, gullible in her care and self-assurance. Bellamy saw a strength none of them could fathom. Truly unafraid of any monster.</p><p>.</p><p>..</p><p>(He stares out over his ebony house. Blank and empty, halls littered in books. He misses her. The way she laughed at him, how she challenged him.)</p><p>..</p><p>.</p><p>He was on Charon's boat.</p><p>River Styx was a desolate place. The banks were covered in black sand, and caves occupied the tunnel in endless depths. He watched the souls pass by in tarry black waters, not sparing him a glance. He was unseen. "Thank you, Miller," Bellamy said, stepping off his friend's boat. He faced his abode.</p><p>A pile of bricks, surrounded by darkness and the glowing blue of fires. One room, one throne chamber, and a black river curling around it. Lovely.</p><p>"Anytime," he chirped back, taking off down the river, and though it was a joke, it was true.</p><p>..</p><p>He spent a year pondering it, in the depths of Tartarus.</p><p>He fed Cerberus her bones, talked to the souls, and helped the servants with their menial chores all around the realm. Many people thought an immortal's time blurred: a year, equivalent to a day, but no.</p><p>A day was a day, and he spent 364 alone every year.</p><p>Jasper popped in once, said and sent brief hellos from all his friendly acquaintances. Bellamy understood why they didn't visit: why Jasper did. Pike reigned hell on him, and he'd do it to the others without hesitating, so they used Jasper to talk to him the rare times they chose to. Hermes was so unhinged, head shaved, beard scruffy, and so visiting Hades did not raise suspicion. He understood, he really did. Still.</p><p>He was lonely, like a tree in a prairie, watching the kids run by.</p><p>..</p><p>The next year was the same: he said nearly nothing, and she said nearly everything.</p><p>He was listened to more.</p><p>She argued, "They are not evil!" Murphy cocked his head back, laughing, and thrusting each and every war in her face. It was quite the extensive list. "You <em>instigated</em> those," she said as her mother set a hand on her shoulder. Bellamy canted his head in thought: Murphy <em>was</em> the god of war. It was a fair point.</p><p>But once again, no one agreed with her.</p><p>"You can't corrupt something that isn't already there."</p><p>Silence.</p><p>They both glanced over: Murphy with pride, Clarke with disdain. Bellamy didn't speak often, not in meetings or at all, and it didn't mean he agreed with her. He just gave her a legitimate argument, instead of mocking her.</p><p>"You can't see the good without looking," she shot back, and Bellamy had nothing else to say. Their eyes collided, like the earth plates creating mountains.</p><p>He wondered how high they would go.</p><p>..</p><p>The bench was the same as always, cold and hard as he sat, but once he rested against it long enough, it would warm.</p><p>She leaned over the fountain, dragging her finger through the waters. Her hair tickled its surface.</p><p>Clarke's feet were dirty. Her dress was stained. The flowers bloomed. He didn't understand her. "Why are you always covered in mud?" he asked. She glanced at him funny, toes digging into the soil. The air was tight after the words escaped.</p><p>Then, she grinned, wistful and reminiscent. She looked back to the water, like she saw something in it. She respected him. He didn't get it at all.</p><p>"I'm goddess of the harvest."</p><p>And he was the god of death, but he wasn't covered in bones.</p><p>..</p><p>The underworld was his. The sea belonged to Wells, and the sky to Pike. <em>Without looking, </em>she said.<em> Without looking.</em></p><p>The earth belonged to no god. No one had control of its soil. He knew this: they all knew this—knew this and still pretended they had absolution. No one, no rule, no boundary, nothing was stopping him, except himself.</p><p>"Miller," Bellamy called from the shore in front of his home.</p><p>It glowed a pale blue, but the black water absorbed all colour. He called back, "Yeah, man?" The rickety boat skated across the souls, and it settled next to Bellamy. He stepped onto the thin craft.</p><p>"Take me to where the rivers split." <em>To earth.</em></p><p>Miller raised a brow. "Sounds like fun."</p><p>He wanted to go looking, purely for research purposes. He wanted to figure out what she was talking about. Miller carried him to the where hell met earth, a cave undiscoverable by humans. Wet, cold, stalagmites, stalactites. A cave like every other. Then, after a short walk, came the earth.</p><p>The soil was rich between his toes, and the first rays of sun were hot on his face. He stayed in the trees, and saw a squirrel, then a fox.</p><p>A dog, black, dirty and fluffy jogged up to him, and jumped. It scared the crap out him, and he fell into the dirt, staining his black chiton. He kicked at it. It didn't connect, but the message was clear. Whining, the mutt retreated into a village, where Bellamy saw humans wandering, kicking up dust. Scrambling to his feet, he fled.</p><p>He didn't tell Miller about it.</p><p>..</p><p>
  <strong> <em>STORGE</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(familial love)</em>
</p><p>(He holds the ribbon in his hand.</p><p>He sees a sister who isn't his. His heart can't understand that. She is his sister, even still, even after he hurt her.)</p><p>..</p><p>He wanted to explore it. It took him a week to work up the courage.</p><p>The small village was on the Peloponnesian Peninsula. It was called Arkadia. Among the filthy roads, his, now white, chiton picked up dust. He didn't want to draw attention. People ran by; he was walking in the middle of chaos.</p><p>Chaos was comfortable.</p><p>There was more architecture than there used to be on earth—more life. The buildings were made of clay, and intricate bricks. Willow trees grew through the town, vines hanging down to brush the gravel. Scurrying rocks pittered over his bare feet. Children rushed by.</p><p>One hit him.</p><p>She was short and small, with the biggest sea eyes he'd ever seen. He did not waver, but the child fell flat on her bottom. She squeaked. Her lips tightened, and her hair fell into her eyes. As he knelt next to her, everything continued; they were an anchor in a rushing river.</p><p>"Are you all right?" he asked in Cretan. Her mouth gaped, palms pushing into the rocky dirt. He shook his head with a grin, trying again, but in Greek, "Are you all right?"</p><p>"Big Brother?"</p><p>"Uh… no?"</p><p>Then, her large eyes filled with tears. His first trip to earth and he made a child cry.</p><p>He pulled a ribbon from behind her ear. It was from the river of all things lost, of forgetfulness: <em>Lethe</em>. The river that made you forget sorrow, and pain. He pressed it into her palm and it soothed her.</p><p>It was cheating, to use magic like he just did.</p><p>She took the ribbon into her tiny, muddy hands, wiping at her cheeks with her inner wrists. He gestured to her hair, which fell back into her eyes. Her fingers struggled tying her hair back, so his took over, snagging on stray knots, before tying a neat little bow.</p><p>In the middle of the road.</p><p>"You look so much like August," she said, voice raspy and high.</p><p>The crowds steps were loud, but he heard giggling children. Her gaze caught them, and before he knew it, she was gone.</p><p>He knelt alone in middle of a busy road. She looked like a child to him, maybe six, with dark hair, and bright eyes. Everyone here seemed like that, to him. The only things old were the willow trees.</p><p>He went home.</p><p>..</p><p><em>"Without looking,"</em> she'd said. He did his job, directing souls, and feeding Cerberus. It was boring.</p><p>All he saw were willow trees, and humans.</p><p>..</p><p>And so he returned to Arkadia, to learn. Yes. To learn.</p><p>When he saw her, he waved. That was the instigator, the stupid idea. He was a <em>god</em>, a dangerous one. She ran over and immediately filled his day with her chatter, so much so, he didn't catch her name.</p><p>"It's Octavia," she said from atop his shoulders. Turns out, everyone had a name here. Turns out every soul had a place, even if none of them knew it. Her fingers squeezed his hair as he gazed over the crowd. People rushed, some didn't. There was a purple flower on the gravel, trampled.</p><p>No one was searching for this child. It was just her, no parents, no money.</p><p>"What's yours?" she asked, bouncing her heels on his ribs.</p><p>He could have said Hades, or he could have lied, said Blake like he always did with the few humans he'd spoken to. The girl tugged his hair again, and:</p><p>"My name is Bellamy."</p><p>"Bellamy," she tasted it on her tongue. A cloud overhead covered the sun, making the day fall grey. His soul cracked like he had never known, a cavern unlocking.</p><p>"Bellamy," she said again, giggling and brushing her tangled hair behind her eyes, "like a Bell!"</p><p>..</p><p>
  <em>You can't see the good without looking.</em>
</p><p>He thought he found it. He visited Octavia about once a week. He'd have gotten in trouble if he went any more, for abandoning a post he wasn't paid to do, one he was shunned for doing, one nobody else wanted to be responsible for.</p><p>He shouldn't dwell on it. It angered him.</p><p>That day, Octavia gardened for an elderly man named Dante. She was to be paid luxuriously, and though Bellamy knew he could fabricate money, watching (and helping) someone do work for pay had its own benefits. They knelt in the rich mud.</p><p>The man drank tea inside. A girl was in the street going door to door, handing out apples. "Mr. Wallace!" she called.</p><p>Octavia giggled a hello to the girl named Percy, distracting him by pulling a carrot from the ground, tip white and wrangled. Her eyes locked on him, pleading for validation. Her soul's presence flickered.</p><p>"I think that's the biggest yet," he said, patting the pile of muddy carrots next to him.</p><p>She didn't shun him, this child.</p><p>"Thanks, Bellamy." She grinned, pulling the flaky leaves from the veggie. His chest warmed in the familial way it did when she said his name, but it also spiked in panic. He glanced around, realizing no one had been there to hear.</p><p>"You shouldn't call me that, O."</p><p>She hummed, plucking another carrot from beside him. Bellamy tugged her hair gently,</p><p>"I'm serious," he forced, "my name is very dangerous."</p><p>Recognition flittered on her face. Quite the intelligent child.</p><p>"Bell, then."</p><p>His shoulders lifted, warming his chest in a way so far from celestial. So different from a mortal owning him and his name: instead, it felt like belonging, like coming home. The ribbon is tied, holding back her hair.</p><p>"Like a bell," he said.</p><p>..</p><p>She came to him crying once, hair in a nest.</p><p>Graham stole her ribbon; Bellamy conjured another, and told her he would never run out as she sobbed into his chiton. Graham was paid a visit by the god of death that night.</p><p>The rest was left untold.</p><p>..</p><p>He could not find Octavia.</p><p>Bellamy had always been able to sense souls, finding them in the mix, hers especially. Not that day.</p><p><em>Did she die?</em> It was his first thought. Irrational, dramatic.</p><p>He stomped through her village, ready to rip any and every door down. It was funny, he had lost souls before, but not ones he had been responsible for. <em>My responsibility. </em>This mattered to him. This terrified him.</p><p>He checked in the grass, asking strangers if they've seen her. He skittered across the road.</p><p>Graham saw him in the street, and fear sparked in his eyes. He dropped his cinnamon bread, a waste. Bellamy couldn't care as he trapped him against a wall, arms crossed.</p><p>"Where is she?" Bellamy demanded.</p><p>Graham gulped: he must be fourteen, and had been picking on a seven-year-old. Bellamy was somewhere in his thousands and was picking on a teen. He grabbed Graham's collar, lifting him. The boy's eyes stuck on a point over his shoulder, and his lips shuttered like they wanted to give Bellamy an answer. Holding the boy strong, he glanced back.</p><p>He saw her. No, not Octavia.</p><p>First, he saw <em>Clarke</em>, and he saw her undeniably, pale skin, blue eyes, sun-beams of hair. Her feet were dirty on the gravel, and her smile was grim in a comforting way. Her appearance stuck out like snow in the summer, even with that cloak on her head.</p><p>He tried to call her name, but <em>Clarke</em> was empty on his lips.</p><p>She pulled endless amounts of grain and bread from her pockets, handing them to children, elders and a pregnant woman who hobbled funny.</p><p>Then, O. Her ribbon shimmered.</p><p>He dropped Graham, who grunted and ran off in terror. He didn't notice.</p><p>O grabbed the bread, cradling it in her rib cage. Her sea eyes met his. In excitement, she hopped her way over to him. Her feet skidded, almost dropping her treat as she teetered to regain her balance. Clarke's gaze followed her, sweet and proud.</p><p>Until she spotted him: and never in his centuries of knowing her, had he seen her this angry.</p><p>She was quick, scarily so, zinging between him and Octavia. Her hand thrusted into his sternum, digging the white linen into his bronze skin. His back smacked bricks.</p><p>"She is a <em>child</em>," she bit, catching the girl's shoulder much more gently.</p><p>Bellamy's brows rose, looking down on the goddess. "I'm aware," he answered.</p><p>The girl behind Clarke jutted her lip. He gave her a soft grin. Clarke tugged a pastry from her pocket, and Octavia glowed.</p><p>"Her '<em>purity</em>'," she said while O was distracted: Bellamy's anger punctured his patience, "or however you <em>tyrants</em> like to describe-"</p><p>"I am not-" <em>Pike</em> "Zeus!" he seethed.</p><p>Octavia's reservoirs of tolerance dried: she pushed Clarke's hand aside, lunging for the tyrant, the god of death, of hatred, of the underworld. He knelt to catch her on instinct, and the moment they made contact, he felt the heat of her soul overtake him.</p><p><em>Storge</em>, a familial love.</p><p>"Bellamy!" she squealed as Clarke's mouth gaped. O tensed. "Bell." She stared at him, panicked. "This is <em>Bell</em>." He stood slowly, and her hand grabbed his, nervously smiling at the goddess of grain. "Percy, his name is <em>Bell</em>."</p><p>Bell murmured, "It's all right, Octavia."</p><p>When you gave your name to a mortal, they owned you. She knew that. Clarke stared at him, hard and curious. Her hand rose, spreading on his ribs, underneath the white of his chiton. This touch was different than before, kinder. She was warm, and where there was supposed to be a heartbeat, there was nothing. He was cold, so her lips turned down.</p><p>He could understand her bafflement.</p><p>No heartbeat, and his true name, that had been whispered from a child of seven years.</p><p>"Percy," he said curtly. Clarke scrunched her nose at him, retracting her hand like he burned her. The child's soul thrived, but as O pulled away, losing contact, running off to play tag, it all but dissolved. He only felt one. The sensation he had buried before, a soul of such massive proportions, it had overtaken all others.</p><p>It had been hers.</p><p>"<em>Hades</em>," she forced. She couldn't say his name either, not with anyone there to listen. Though, she spoke so quietly, so <em>venomously</em>, he wasn't sure anyone would be able to hear anyway. "What are you doing here, among such <em>savagery</em>?" She gestured stiffly to the crowd.</p><p>"I never said that."</p><p>"You never disagreed either."</p><p>"Well maybe," he glared, motioning to wherever Octavia had run off to: the thick willow trees rooted into Arcadia, the wooden carts, maybe the aged roofs of the buildings: he didn't know where she was, "now I disagree."</p><p>She sent him that look again, the curious, angry and weird one. "Maybe," she muttered, disappearing into the crowd. He was about to follow her, simmering on his anger, but then Octavia returned to snag his hand.</p><p>Clarke was irritating, but really not his problem.</p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <em>end of prologue:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and part one.</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. is silent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>List of the gods and their counterpart at bottom. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>LUDUS</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(playful love)</em>
</p><p>It was drizzling when their eyes met again, calling for an answer.</p><p>Her hood was up, but her hair still swayed on her shoulders, gold slipping from underneath. He expected a glare across the crowd, but she grinned, and disappeared, dodging into an alley.</p><p>Bellamy hadn't played games in thousands of years.</p><p>Rain gently misted down, greying the sky and soaking his hair. It washed away the worries. He took off after her. Puddles exploded with each step, but she was a master of obscurity. A flash of sun flew around a corner into the main square. How on earth had he missed her for so long?</p><p>He was having <em>fun</em>. (He had forgotten the concept.)</p><p>She wasn't in the main square, or underneath any muddy carts, or in any hay bales. When he laughed up at the clouds to catch sweet raindrops in his mouth, she wasn't there either. He recruited Octavia, who was beating a tree with a stick—she had dreams of Sparta—but he claimed this mission was of the utmost importance. She only giggled, but helped him look by stomping in the oceanic puddles and waving her stick. Like a knight. The rain fell harder, and the streets began to empty.</p><p>They checked the well, not there. He put O on his shoulders so she could see on the roofs.</p><p>"<em>Τίποτα</em>," she said through the downpour. <em>Nothing. </em>He took a few steps down the empty, flooded road. "Bell, I'm cold." He was always cold: he had hardly considered the temperature for a mortal. She must be freezing.</p><p>"We'll find cover." He patted her wet leg.</p><p>She was still on his shoulders when he discovered the library. It was a large building, had two floors, and was a little crooked on the left side. He squeezed the lock on the tall spruce door in his hand, and it clattered to the gravel. The door pushed in easily, barely creaking.</p><p>It was an immediate sanctum from the haze of rain.</p><p>Words stacked on words within shelves stacked on shelves filled the room; the dusty books were clogged with anecdotal chatter.</p><p>He and Octavia created a puddle on the floor as they gaped at the shelves, then a stream as he walked to the semicircle platform of stones around the fireplace. Setting her down, he gave it life. The flint sparked twice and it was crackling a beautiful orange. O cuddled close to the warmth, but she still curled up near his ankle.</p><p>He tucked hair behind her ear, and she fell into a slumber.</p><p>Minutes later, as she slept, Bellamy rose carefully, and opened a novel from the plethora of shelves. It was an inscription of Greece's geography. He returned it, grabbing another. It was an anthology of faerie tales.</p><p>
  <em>You don't see the good without looking.</em>
</p><p>Bellamy returned to O, who cuddled onto his thigh as he sat. His voice narrated, giving breath to dead trees. The words were tossed together, characters of alphabetical and human, creating vivid, magnificent images. Some were ugly, heart-clenchingly painful. Some were peaceful. Some were horrifying. They woke her. Octavia stared at him for a moment and then, inevitably, she passed out again, lulled by the deep rumble of his voice.</p><p>Humanity had a gift, he realized. For all their chaos.</p><p>The door opened, it was an echoing <em>thunk</em>. He glanced over his damp shoulder, and in trailed Clarke.</p><p>"<em>Σκατά</em>," he swore, hoping the regret in his tone was enough for a truce. "I forgot." She placed her hands on her hips as water trickled down her arms. Her brows lifted, glancing at the ground.</p><p>"Did you break the lock?"</p><p>He stared at her. <em>Yes, no, maybe. </em>She quirked her lips. Ambling over, Clarke snatched a novel off a shelf, grey, frayed, and bleeding words. The goddess knelt beside them, at O's back. Her fingers twined her dark hair, snagging and removing knots. The fire had them alight, bronzy.</p><p>Then, she whispered:</p><p>"You aren't who I thought you were."</p><p>He was quiet, unaware of how to respond. Clarke's eyes dissected him. Octavia glanced up, groggy, "he's <em>Bell</em>."</p><p>"You're Bell," Clarke said.</p><p>"And I'm Octavia," O rolled over, facing Clarke, "and you're Percy." Clarke granted a sad smile, or at least he thought that was what she was going for.</p><p>"And I'm Percy."</p><p>..</p><p>He got to know Clarke, slowly yet surely in the many years that passed.</p><p>He learned she loved Arkadia, and loved books, and she was kind, and she was cruel. He learned that she was close to Octavia, and to Finn, and a boy named Lincoln. He didn't understand it, and so he sent his demons throughout the earth, in search of literature.</p><p>They did not come back empty handed.</p><p>There were days he could not put books down. There were days he could not pick books up. There were days he could not pick them up, but he wanted to.</p><p>Those were the worst days.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>AGAPE</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(selfless love)</em>
</p><p>"Alone today?"</p><p>Against a wooden cart, he glanced over at Clarke. "O's at school." Her cheeks were pink from the heat.</p><p>"How old' she now?"</p><p>"Eleven."</p><p>"Time flies," she murmured. Her mouth quirked. Face flushing, she rested on her shoulder next to him, and her arms locked behind her back. She hummed. The day was scalding, aching on his feet. He didn't feel heat all that often. He liked this. Clarke didn't: she was sweaty, so she wiped her forehead and neck, airing out her hair.</p><p>Her breath was cool on his skin compared to the heatwave. "Then why are you here?"</p><p>He tensed.</p><p>He never came to Arkadia outside of when Octavia was free. He knew her schedule like he knew the Styx, so it wasn't just some miscommunication.</p><p>
  <em>Why are you here?</em>
</p><p>"I don't know."</p><p>He had read so many books, and he couldn't explain why books had him leaning against a farmer's cart on a road of broken promises, hearts, and people in the middle of Arkadia. Why they made him want to see, want to understand, want to want.</p><p>"Why are you?" he returned, tapping his knuckle on the cart.</p><p>She tilted toward him. "Because I wanna be." A tendril of her hair fell from her shoulder and tickled his arm. He held in the flinch. "That's Antony's house," she said, pulling back to point. He checked over his shoulder. "And Lian likes to get flowers from Saul." She referred to a dilapidated building that was cracked on the right side and was covered in vines and pink flowers. The florist lifted his gaze to wave.</p><p>He was missing a finger.</p><p>"Kane lives there," she said, pointing to a nicer home next to the flower shop, "but he works in the courthouse." Kane exited his house, holding a book, and he had a full beard. "He hunts Sunday mornings." The man seemed tough to win an argument against. He was familiar too. "We need to stay away from him. He is… <em>friends</em> with my mother."</p><p>A laugh called to Bellamy, but he stifled it. "Good friends?" He grinned.</p><p>"Oh, the <em>best</em>."</p><p>"Platonic, I'm sure," he teased. She rolled her eyes, catching them over his shoulder. Solemness lined her wrinkling brows, and she glanced back at he him, considering.</p><p>She made a choice, saying:</p><p>"Maya used to teach the kids how to read over there." A sorrowful laugh betrayed her as she gestured to the old schoolhouse down the road. "If you looked, you could see Jasper climbing through her window." The messenger god slipping through a window to see a girl. It was a funny image for his mind to conjure-</p><p>-Bellamy's stomach dropped like he was falling from the sky.</p><p>"Used to?"</p><p>Clarke sighed, back falling into the cart. Their shoulders brushed. "Two-hundred-fifty years ago." There were many things Bellamy wondered and never said. (He wondered if Maya called him Jasper, if he held her hand in death, how old she was, how far she made it. If she was even buried. Did he love her? Had Hermes stood in front of a pile of dirt?) Leaving things unsaid was his way, and so, since he had a thousand questions (and he wanted to want), he decided on, "Oh."</p><p>It fell flat, and he hated himself for it.</p><p>They were silent for a moment, before Bellamy saw a woman, short-haired and dark-skinned, leaving the schoolhouse. <em>Indra</em>, O has told him about her feisty teacher. Children followed—Octavia followed, holding hands with a little boy.</p><p>"That's Lincoln," Clarke said, nudging his elbow with hers. The touch burned him more than the ground ever could, and it was startling.</p><p>Octavia wanted the people she loved to love each other, obviously.</p><p>Dragging Lincoln, they planted in front of the much older pair. So this was Octavia's little friend, the one she always talked about. She had those itty bitty heart eyes for him. His skin was dark, eyes too, and he held a kindness.</p><p>Nice kid.</p><p>"This is Bell," said O as Bellamy pushed off the cart. The wheels creaked. "He's my friend, and you know Percy." Clarke bent forward, patting the boy's head. He smiled, teeth gappy.</p><p>"<em>γεια</em>," Lincoln greeted with a slight lisp.</p><p>"Hello," Bellamy answered stiffly.</p><p>Octavia bounced on her toes in excitement. It made him smile. It made all of them smile: Lincoln with admiration, Bellamy with pride, but Clarke wasn't smiling at O. (He ignored it but he saw it. Her eyes were on Bellamy and they were aware of his distaste for the young man.)</p><p>Life kept moving around them. People moved on, because that was what they did best. They wandered, ever looking for… something. He wanted to know what that was.</p><p>Octavia smacked Bellamy, laughing like a maniac. He yelped.</p><p>She took off, leaving him confused. Clarke pushed to her toes, whispering in his ear, "looks like you're it." She dodged left and ran when he reached." He nearly swore.</p><p>He and Lincoln remained, staring at each other. A standoff of eyes.</p><p>The god slapped the boy on the shoulder. People kept walking, like they always did, ignoring the four game makers. Their days didn't revolve around Bellamy, O, Clarke, or Lincoln. (Gods and humans, together, and no one noticed.)</p><p>"<em>Clarke!</em>" he called, chasing after her, the syllable was as void and silent as Pike's brain. Bellamy grumbled when she glanced over her shoulder and laughed. "Percy!"</p><p>Always with the games. She turned a corner.</p><p>Maybe, it was predictable, but she led him to the library. She slipped through the door—that had no lock—and he smirked to himself, following her in. Candles lit the area poorly. A man was there, behind the wooden counter. The librarian was an older fellow with little to no hair. Clarke had told him once when O had been racing around the library that she'd known the man for years, both her and Raven. How he used to have <em>lots</em> of hair.</p><p>"Hephaestus had quite the love for him," she'd kidded over a book. She had sighed, cringing. "...As did I."</p><p>Bellamy had held in his choke of laughter, looking over to the old man. His name was Finn: Bellamy had waved to him. He had returned the gesture. Finn knew him as Bell, as the strange man who always paid gold coins for thirty year old books worth copper. The crooked man named Finn was kind, and he had the best stories.</p><p>The crooked man let them hide in his library, whenever they needed to.</p><p>An odd man, Finn was.</p><p>"Where's Percy?" Bellamy asked.</p><p>He shrugged unconvincingly, shutting the book. Bellamy stared harder. Finn sighed. "Princess is on the loft."</p><p>Turning to the stairs, Bellamy hummed his thanks and rushed up them. "Clarke?" he whispered at the top, full of life. There were three bookshelves squished closely, and she leaned against one.</p><p>"Are you it?" she probed, calculating him.</p><p>"No."</p><p>The soft smirk on her face told him she believed him. She settled next to him on the loft rail. Her mouth opened-</p><p>The door <em>thunked</em> on ground floor. Two children barreled in. Bellamy froze. Finn's eyes rose, squinting over the desk: "Octavia and Lincoln!" he called far too loudly. His hand flicked in attempted subtlety.</p><p>Clarke was next to him, tugging his arm, and squishing them between two of the shelves. It was dark, and the books were gray. The dust was thick on his tongue. Everything changed in one second, and how they got there, he didn't know. Their eyes met, melting into each other's and he <em>didn't understand:</em> her or this. She stared up at him, gaze tracing his face. It didn't make sense how warm he felt. Clarke took a slow step forward, and on pure reaction, he started back to give her space. <em>Thud</em>. Her hands flew up to cover her gasp as he swore, because <em>ouch</em>. His head ached. She grabbed for his scurrying hands.</p><p>"Don't rub it!"</p><p>There was a rattle of footsteps.</p><p>"I'll be <em>fine</em>." He was an immortal, after all. "Control freak-"</p><p>-Octavia jumped around the corner, Lincoln in tow. He and Clarke stared at them, caught, and Finn hobbled behind many seconds later, eyes apologetic.</p><p>Clarke laughed, full and crackling.</p><p>The thing was, in these shallow, stuffy bookshelves, and in between the laughter, he realized he cared for the humans passed Octavia, passed this town. He cared for Finn, and for Maya, and for Lincoln, even if just a tinge.</p><p>It confused him. Yet, he lived for it.</p><p>Someone in Arkadia knew which fences to jump, and which neighbours never to bother. Where the best water to drink was. The best roofs to climb. They had carved their names into the bottoms of tree trunks, had licked the walls on dares to see if they were salty. They knew every name in the graveyard. This was their home, and Bellamy didn't know a thing about it. These people had souls and lives, and he had lived thousands of years, but didn't know a thing.</p><p>Clarke's toes nudged his, and he felt like nudging her back, so he did.</p><p>..</p><p>"Hey, man," Miller called into his room.</p><p>Bellamy flinched, lifting his gaze from the novel in his lap. "Yeah?" Low candle light and a valley of books surrounded him on the floor. The room smelt like burning wax but he hadn't noticed. Cracking his neck, he rolled his shoulders. Bellamy stood, book clasped in his hand. It was time for work.</p><p>"Uh," he heard Miller stutter, "you have a visitor?"</p><p>The book slipped from his grasp. It clattered and the pages fluttered. He cringed, imagining creases that had definitely formed.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>Then, Clarke was there, sliding around the dark corner, hands clasped behind her back. There were no muddy feet or dirty peploses, and her hair was wavy. Her nervousness flushed her cheeks. Yet, she still looked brave, blue eyes stuck on his.</p><p>She was beautiful.</p><p>He blinked at the thought. "Hey," he said. Miller slithered away.</p><p>"Hey."</p><p>"What are you doing here," he tilted his head, "amongst such <em>savagery?</em>" He dramatically bowed, feet cool against the dark marble. He could feel her rolling her eyes. It was a common phenomenon between them.</p><p>She shrugged. "I was bored."</p><p>"So you came here?"</p><p>Her cheek twitched, hiding her smile. She shrugged again.</p><p>It wasn't awkward but it was odd. She pushed on her toes to glance over his shoulder. "Quite the collection." His walls were a pale grey of mud and bricks. The only drop of life in here was the pages, and they were his favourite place to be.</p><p>The best books were wrinkled, he'd learned. They were old, and whittled, but they were still on the shelf. They had been read the most. He felt them at his back. The paper cuts on his fingers that had callused over. The characters. The deaths. The kisses. <em>The kisses.</em></p><p>His breath hitched. His mouth dried.</p><p>Oh no, no, no, he wanted to <em>kiss</em> her. She ambled passed him, beautiful and he couldn't make himself look as he tried to remember how to breathe.</p><p>He swallowed, turning to join his guest.</p><p>..</p><p>
  <strong> <em>EROS</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(romantic love)</em>
</p><p>Over Mount Olympus' table, he and Clarke had invented a magnitude of games years ago, rolling eyes and glaring. Diyoza, passively, had caught on quickly, but she had always been tactical. Pike had been oblivious on his right, and Abby, two seats over, hadn't noticed either. They still didn't, four years into their games.</p><p>They existed for the garden after, watching the fountain: until he had to leave. She waved him goodbye with a flick of the finger, and nodded his head at her.</p><p>She met him in hell, then.</p><p>They laughed and chatted and read, visiting earth every couple of days. He watched Arkadia flourish, learning them all. Lincoln was the boy who sold fruit for his father, Abram. Abram was not a fan of outsiders. His wife, Ilya, had died of a sickness that had been brought in by travellers. On and on and on, Ilya's brother had been a blacksmith. Whose daughter was pregnant. Everyone had a story.</p><p>He wondered how they could have so much story, for how little they lived.</p><p>He and Clarke had talked about it a couple times: philosophy, morality, heredity. Then, they would laugh as he tugged her hair and she untied the knot of the wrap around his waist.</p><p>..</p><p>They sat in a field of wheat. A golden field that reminded him so much of Elysium.</p><p>There were two dogs in Arkadia; the one who had scared him was named Walden. Phoenix was the other. They had been left by travellers passing through. One was a beefy black, and the other was a small and fluffy gold.</p><p>They had created many litters together.</p><p>Octavia loved all the little puppies, and Clarke too, though she was less tactile.</p><p>The child rubbed that spot behind all their ears with practiced ease as Clarke told him stories, and he told her some too. He learnt all of hers and with interest, and she, all of his, but honestly, he wanted to ask about her. Bellamy wondered, passively, if she knew a thing about herself, for all of her trivia.</p><p>"And you?" it slipped out. "What do you like to do?"</p><p>The golden, old mutt pressed its head into her palm. She was confused by his question, ankle brushing his. Her blue eyes were stuck on the dog. "I like to draw, sometimes," she supplied, "the people."</p><p>He made an acknowledging sound. <em>The people. </em>Always the people, even when doing things for herself, she still drew them. Octavia chased butterflies with Lincoln, and they watched. Phoenix took off after them.</p><p>She was tense. He touched her hand.</p><p>"Madi," she whispered, and he felt a fear in his skin. The sky was orange, a comforting shade of sunset. It quickly became the orange of a flame, one he was far too close to. "Her name was Madi."</p><p>Octavia giggled, in the background.</p><p>Clarke crawled to his side, leaning on his shoulder. "I met her-" she whispered, "when I was eighteen, and-" <em>she's dead now,</em> he knew.</p><p>"What killed her," he prompted softly, rubbing her neck and thigh.</p><p>"A flame," her breath was cool on his neck, "she burned-" Clarke didn't stutter, never stuttered, but she also rarely communicated so she never had to. "I drew with her, Bellamy." For the first time in five years, she said his name on earth. Not Bell, or the Hades she always had to in meetings. It wasn't warm like when O said it, but it was painful.</p><p>The golden fields were beautiful, but pain wasn't possible in Elysium.</p><p>The sky had drifted into a pale pink. They were circled by puppies and kids, and she was his to hold. He combed through her hair as she tried to breathe. <em>Madi</em>. He was quite fond of her, and she was fond of everything.</p><p>He was okay with it. That's how fondness worked.</p><p>..</p><p>The gods slept in the fields that night, after returning the children to the orphanage.</p><p>He awoke facing her, and when her eyes fluttered open, he didn't look away. She sat up, the purple of dawn was chilly. "Come," she said, pulling him to his feet. After the golden fields, Clarke led him through the forest to a hollowed trunk. She leaned over it and pulled out a silver bow. It was large and caressed with wooden accents. It looked worthy of Artemis.</p><p>She turned, smiling wide, and gave it to him. When his hands touched the cool metal, a tingle shot through him.</p><p>It was Artemis'. Niylah and Clarke had always been friends, after all. The silver was far lighter than he'd assumed. Clarke handed him an arrow.</p><p>"Take aim," she commanded, "we're after that tree."</p><p>The tree she gestured to was thick, fifty steps away. Vines hung down from the branches, swaying in the whisper of wind. The tree was plenty skewered already, like it was used to such treatment, bark shredded like a skinned knee.</p><p>Drawing the bow, he felt his arms tense: unsteady.</p><p>Clarke rested her palm on his bicep. "Why do you have to be right-handed?" She tweaked his stance, widening his feet, and lifting his elbow.</p><p>He should have been looking at his target, but he wasn't.</p><p>Her brows were pinched, and her hand settled on his. Clarke's eyes flicked to his. He inhaled sharply. It smelled like moss.</p><p>"Shoot," she whispered, stepping away.</p><p>His fingers released. The arrow did not hit true. It skimmed the side, pulling his lips down into a frown. She brushed his shoulder in acceptance, and handed him another arrow as she adjusted his stance again. The second shot was equally terrible.</p><p>Noon overtook them, and white dandelion puffs danced around them.</p><p>It turned into a competition, one where she was infinitely better than him. Her first shot hit in a knot in the tree, just off by an inch, and his next missed, slicing the vines behind. He couldn't find it in himself to care too much.</p><p>As gods, they did not need sleep, but laying down was a pleasure all living creatures could participate in.</p><p>It was beautiful, the blue of the sky and how the clouds made little pictures.</p><p>It was beautiful, the way she lay there and absorbed it. Her hair soaked in the grass and the pale white cloth that eternally covered her was grey with water and brown with dirt.</p><p>The grass tickled the bottom of his feet, and he tried to trap the sensation, to hold onto this moment.</p><p>What he wasn't expecting: a girl, suddenly rolling over and onto him. His breath became contentedly trapped. She was above him, her own breath startled at her boldness.</p><p>"Is this okay?" she whispered. The words were a snowflake, melting on her tongue.</p><p>"Yeah." His voice was compact and raw.</p><p>His hands found purchase at her hips. She lowered, pressing her lips on his. It was not his first, so very far from it. He had plucked the souls who were on their way to eternal damnation, giving them quite the adventure before their end.</p><p>She kissed soft, and firm, like she'd done it before.</p><p>She tasted like Monty's wine. His knees lifted, gravity pulling his dark chiton to rest at the small of her back. She whimpered. Her hips cradled his as he pushed off his elbow to get closer, warmer. Bellamy's arms locked around her back, his thumbs massaging the inside of his elbows.</p><p>Pulling away, Clarke's elbows sat on his shoulders.</p><p>Her nails traced his lines, counting his scars. His skin was dark, littered with marks. Bellamy had never really noticed how many freckles he bore until his skin pressed against her palms. They were soft, her hands, dirty with cracked nails. She traced his pecs beneath his chiton, one hand sliding down to brush his abdominal muscles. He involuntarily clenched, catching her wrist. Her eyes flew up in concern. It was clear: her worry. After all the years of her boundaries being exceeded and stomped on, she thought she was pushing his.</p><p>"I'm all right," he whispered, voice hoarse.</p><p>He moved forward, capturing her lips in his again. This was happening: <em>he's kissing her.</em> A groan passed though his lips when she tugged his hair. His inhibitions disappeared. A stick cracked.</p><p>Demeter's advisor stumbled from the brush. Clarke tensed. Their kiss broke.</p><p>"Persephone?"</p><p>It was Sunday.</p><p>That was so far from a good thing. A man who recognized her, and therefore likely knew him, just walked in on them tangled. "Kane," Bellamy responded. Clarke's eyes breached him; fearful.</p><p>"You're supposed to be in Tartarus," he said to him. "Persephone, your mother-"</p><p>"-Marcus, please." His hands tightened on her hips.</p><p>There was no way to play this off.</p><p>He knew it. Marcus knew it. Clarke knew it. It was a casual conversation, in the woods, at high noon on a Sunday. Stained with bruises, and puffy lips.</p><p>..</p><p>When he received an invitation to Demeter's garden before the meeting, and permission from Zeus to go, he knew it had been an order.</p><p>It really was a beautiful place though.</p><p>Crops grew. Trees stood fifty times taller than himself. The willows hung down, like a scarf of leaves and feathers. Each step he took had a crunch, even on the dirt path: the skeletons of dead trees were sticks beneath his feet.</p><p>Nymphs skittered around and away from him, nude and scared.</p><p>Clarke was here. She weaved baskets and sat with a nymph, chatting kindly. He didn't even try to tamper his smile.</p><p>"Hades," a voice said behind him. He set his shoulders, tamed his grin.</p><p>"Abigail." Turning, he saw her huff. "It was very kind of you to invite me-"</p><p>"-What do you want with Clarke?"</p><p>The thing was: there was no straight answer. <em>To be friends with her,</em> he'd be accused of lying. <em>To love her, </em>she'd be hurt in a stupid quarrel between him and Zeus. There really was only one answer, and he'd been thinking about it since Kane.</p><p>"Her purity." He grinned, grinned so hard it hurt.</p><p>He could have brought up Marcus, or even Jake, her lover of centuries ago.</p><p>He could feel Clarke's eyes, blue and cold, attach to him: <em>don't believe me. </em>But she did. He glanced over his shoulder. Just like when she had been younger, she clutched the basket in her hands.</p><p>Bellamy tried not to stare.</p><p>"Why the sudden interest?" Abby probed, stepping slowly between him and Clarke.</p><p>"Pike needs to learn his place." At least he wasn't lying there. She crossed her arms, raising a brow.</p><p>"And earth, why are you on earth?"</p><p>Demeter had never been one to have any issues when it had nothing to do with her daughter. Yet, she was still terrifying. She had demeaning eyes. Borders were made in the dirt.</p><p>"Humans are so easy to break." (Gods were easier.)</p><p>Her brows furrowed; he had stunned her. After what had happened with Pike, many of the gods had assumed he had revoked his belief of the grounders.</p><p>The nymphs around Clarke all laughed. But she stared at him, hurt.</p><p><em>Don't believe me. </em>He forced himself to look away. "Are we done?" he asked; Abby glared, but nodded. Each step felt knee high in mud as he stomped from the garden. Zeus and Hades collided. Pike was on his way to see Clarke. His face tightened at the sight of Bellamy, forgetting he'd allowed him to be there. It was a stare. A question, but there were no words. Bellamy kept walking, distress coiling in his gut.</p><p>It was time for a meeting.</p><p>..</p><p>It was the same that year as all the others.</p><p>Except, she walked in and didn't meet his gaze. Except: the eyes that were following her, and hands that were reaching. They bothered him more than they had any right to. They had always bothered him, but she would have hated him stepping between her and her problems. It was a huge risk too.</p><p>Then, she had to go and kiss him.</p><p>It made it worse. <em>She can take care of herself, </em>a voice in his head adamantly pressed. Pike stood.</p><p>"The people need to learn a lesson on disrespecting their gods."</p><p>"There are many that pray to us," Monty said.</p><p>Pike scoffed. "And many that don't."</p><p>"So?" Clarke pushed, leaning back in her chair. She was so determined, so recklessly selfless.</p><p>Pike gave her a grin. "You were quite the student," he chuckled. "Where did you get such idiotic ideas?"</p><p>Zeus had taught them all, had groomed them to fit his views and criteria. Bellamy had spoken pretty words for him: his silver tongue had persuaded them into a massacre.</p><p>He had sent Murphy to start wars, had Jasper deliver false messages.</p><p>It pissed Bellamy off, how easily he had fallen for such obvious propaganda; it had him curling his toes and clenching his fists. He regretted it so much. It had led him to Tartarus, where he heard the cries of the people he murdered.</p><p>They had mocked him. <em>You can't leave. We won't forgive you. You won't forgive you.</em></p><p>He was trying to hold on to his patience.</p><p>"Maybe she decided you weren't all that bright," Bellamy said, keeping his tone strong and even.</p><p>That was mistake one; Zeus' brows lowered.</p><p>..</p><p>Bellamy sat on their bench, wishing she had never heard what he'd said.</p><p>He waited for her, knowing she would not come. He waited anyway. A cool wind blew through as a dark hand latched onto his shoulder. "Bellamy," Pike said. He was in gold-trimmed linen, feet clad in sandals. Staring at the Cupid above the marble fountain, Bellamy held in the grit of his teeth. "What are you doing?"</p><p>Bellamy leaned forward, trying to ignore the pressure of Zeus' fingers. Powerless. "Looking at the flowers."</p><p>It was not what Pike had meant.</p><p>"On earth, with <em>Clarke</em>," he squeezed his hand, "with the grounders, and don't tell me how 'easy' they are to break."</p><p>He'd talked to Abby. Bellamy's bad mood simmered further.</p><p>This was what bothered him about Pike: the god was a teacher, a supposed helper. He nurtured them into his ideals. His wrinkled brows asked them to trust him and his wisdom. His broad shoulders promised the capability of holding their secrets. He, Wells, and Bellamy had been the start of the gods, yet they had missed the most.</p><p>Bellamy wouldn't give Pike what he wanted.</p><p>So Bellamy stared at the fountain: it sprayed, and water danced. Not a word left his lips.</p><p>"You care for them," he said, "for her."</p><p>Bellamy knew his mistake the moment he made it. Mistake two. His gaze, a rusty brown, flickered up to Pike's. It was quick, and stupid. It was just like him. He had never been known to think with his head.</p><p>Pike grinned, and his shoulder burned from one hell of a clutch. It was unnatural, the way it crawled into his chest and lay there.</p><p>"See you 'round, <em>Bell</em>."</p><p>Fear coiled in Bellamy's stomach to greet its guest.</p><p>..</p><p>He returned home, words said he wished never had been.</p><p>He'd had to say them though; had to. Reduce her to a strand of wheat in a field, a grain of sand. Still, her eyes had been so hurt, so angry. The way her smile had slipped from her face wouldn't leave him.</p><p>His steps were hollow off Miller's boat, abrupt on the dirt. His house was bigger, and his room was emptier. He collapsed on his bed, and though he wanted to, he doubted he could find it in himself to read.</p><p>He tried anyway.</p><p>He should have read it backwards, or upside-down, because he wasn't absorbing a thing. His eyes scanned his room, ghosting table tops stacked with books, and walls filled with maps. Everywhere he had wanted to go. With Clarke.</p><p>He sighed, closing his book and pressing its spine between his brows.</p><p>There was a knock. It came from the frame of his opened door. From a frail hand. Clarke. He hopped out of bed, nearly dropping the novel on the floor again. Her eyes were weary as she bounced on her toes.</p><p>"So I thought it over," she supplied, "and-" a sad smile grew on her pink cheeks, "What's another god after my virginity?" He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.</p><p>Instead, he hugged her.</p><p>He had words he wanted to whisper into her neck, but couldn't. Her heels stretched, arms collapsing around his neck. Bellamy nearly lifted her, scrunching the fabric all over her body in his large hands. He had never hugged her, he realized.</p><p>"I didn't mean that," he whispered into her hair. They were an oxymoron.</p><p>Dark against light. Rough on soft. Cruel against kind. Cowardice on bravery. He was the coward. The one who couldn't forgive himself. Dropping to her soles, she pulled back. She hummed. He scrunched his brows.</p><p>"Can you mean it right now?" she whispered as she fell into his lips.</p><p>
  <em>Yes.</em>
</p><p>They faced each other in the dim light. She slid the shoulder of his black chiton down. Clarke tugged his hair. A grunt left him. Bellamy pushed her lightly onto his bed. She bounced, letting him slip between her legs to loom over her. Clarke grabbed his wrist, dragging his hand to her covered breast, then to tickle along her ribs.</p><p>He slid his hand down to her core, meeting her eyes. She blinked. The cavity was filled with a finger, and she sucked in a breath. "I'll make you feel good," he murmured into her ear, thumbing the clips on the shoulders of her peplos, hoping she heard his plea; <em>I want you, (for more than a fuck.)</em></p><p>He fell down her body, slipping his head beneath hiked up linen.</p><p>There was no resistance. They'd loitered long enough. So asking—though at that point, he usually wouldn't, but he wanted her comfortable (he wanted her falling apart, but they'd get there)—"you want this?"</p><p>He couldn't see her face, but her hum was so aching. "<em>Mmhm</em>."</p><p>His hands grabbed her knees, pushing his lips forward into her glistening folds for a one-sided kiss. She squeaked, thighs tightening. His tongue dipped in, lapping up the ocean and her hands tugged his own up. Clarke pushed one on her lush breast, and the other she sucked into her mouth.</p><p>His reaction was immediate, humming into her cunt, squeezing her breast roughly, and most embarrassingly, rutting into the edge of the bed.</p><p>Her hands were cruel, ripping his hair. His face began to heat with his moist breath, and her dripping entrance beneath the chiton. Licking her clit, he slipped two fingers into her. She forced in a huff, rocking her hips. That went on for a while, and then he removed them, planning to add a third. He started, "You-"</p><p>"-<em>Yes</em>."</p><p>It was tight, but it slid in with the rest, slurping. Her ankles locked.</p><p>He could imagine how her face was pinching, eyes closed, brows furrowed, cheeks pink as a rose. Sweaty hairs were sticking to her face, he was sure. He was hoping. Moving the linen, his dark eyes stared up and it was even lovelier than he'd thought. Clarke was utterly broken, over-and-underwhelmed all at once. Her orgasm hit her, and he saw it the moment it did.</p><p>Her eyes clenched and her cries amplified.</p><p>The floor was cool under his toes. It was an odd thing to notice, but it tethered him to here. His worries over Pike disappeared. It made her seem all the warmer.</p><p>He kept moving his fingers as she tightened on them, wringing the orgasm out of her like a rag. Her hands grasped for his. "<em>Stop</em>," she begged. He pulled away in a panicked blink, fingers soaked, and her thighs clenched at the absence. His eyes searched her: I'm sorry- Clarke yanked his wrist to keep him close."Just-" she huffed, "-need a minute."</p><p>She nudged him next her, and he lay down.</p><p>Bellamy didn't expect her to start stripping. She sat up, untying the rope at her waist and letting the peplos fall. It heaped on the floor, and his view was unparalleled. Pale, curvy, and halfway shy. Her back was to him, breast wraps hugging her shoulder blades. A thin sheen of sweat covered her as he reached for her wrist.</p><p>Clarke shifted to face him. Between his legs, she pulled the rest of his chiton off. Nimble fingers tugged down the loin cloth. Hesitantly, and confidently, she gripped his shaft as she sat on the bed next to him.</p><p>"What is it," he asked, sliding his hand into her lap.</p><p>Her hand was nearly wrapped completely around him. A pebbles-width is left between her thumb and forefinger.</p><p>Voice soft: "Nothing." Her face bled.</p><p>He tickled her chin with his nose. "Hey," he said softly, lightly pressing her clit. She jolted, staring him in the eyes. "I'll make it good. We'll take our time." Time will take them.</p><p>"That's not it-" and her gaze met his, softening, "Okay," she huffed, shoulders stiff.</p><p>He was not one to lie, not to her, and so he'd admit his excitement was soaring. Clarke rubbed his raging dick. It glistened. She pulled him, and he rolled onto her, sliding himself up against her stomach. Bellamy nicked her clit, causing a spasm. "You're sure?" he asked. Clarke bit her lip, nodding, rolling her eyes as she did. He brushed stray hairs from her face.</p><p>This was it.</p><p>He lined up, pushing his head in and-</p><p>"-no, stop," she pinched his arm, and he slipped away from her "ow…" Clarke laughed lightly. A short, puffing, 'ha', trying to hide shame he wished she didn't feel.</p><p>He tapped her thigh, saying, "roll over?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>On her knees had the same result, a push and then a panic. "I'm sorry," she started.</p><p>"Don't be." She rolled over again, groaning in frustration as her eyes peaked up to his. "Princess?" Bellamy settled next to her, poking her ribs. "C'mere." She narrowed her gaze good-naturedly at him.</p><p>Again, she tumbled, but on to him. Her knees slid over his hips.</p><p>She kissed him, knotting her arms behind his neck. For a second, he pulled back:</p><p><em>Don't be sorry. Don't be sad, </em>he wanted to say. "Whatever the hell you want," he said instead. Her pace. Her desires. Her wants. Her.</p><p>"I want you."</p><p>His brows raised, disbelieving. Her smile was rueful, and she rocked forward, squishing his dick between their stomachs to kiss him. They made out, working up tension and arousal. He lifted his fingers to wipe the sweaty flyaway hairs from her cheek, tucking them behind her ear.</p><p>They refused to stay, those stupid hairs.</p><p>Above him, Clarke quivered. She broke their kiss, and sat herself up, looking at him glazedly. For a comically awkward moment, he stared. As Clarke tried to hold in her laugh, he wrapped his hand around himself to line up with her entrance. She clutched the forearm cupping her cheek in her hands.</p><p>It rested between them, like a lighthouse, a guide. Maybe a promise.</p><p>"Breathe," he murmured, left palm sliding down to the side of her neck as her fingers tightened on his wrist.</p><p>"I <em>know</em>," she snapped. He tensed as her eyes went wide. "Sorry."</p><p>He laughed. She glared. Clarke took that to be a challenge, sheathing him slowly: he sucked in a breath. One inch, two, she stopped; he brushed a finger over her cheek. Another. He brushed his thumb over her clit. Another.</p><p>"Oh…" She slipped forward, into his shoulder, crushing his arm between their breaths. All the way on him, having him. Here was the key.</p><p>"Good girl," he whispered in her ear.</p><p>"Good <em>boy</em>." He barked a laugh and she shook in his arms. A hum escaped her throat as she sat up again.</p><p>His arm was released from her deadly grip and he dramatically whipped his wrist, like it pained him.</p><p>She pressed her palms into his chest: "Funny."</p><p>He grinned up at her.</p><p>His grin broke into a moan when she moved, slowly and this was honestly better than any mortal or demon he had pulled into his chambers.</p><p>Which didn't make sense.</p><p>They had been infinitely better than the confident wreck above him who didn't know what she was doing. But then, she pecked him on the lips, open mouthed, messily slotted, and he decided to stop thinking. The build was a slow flame, growing and growing, burning through his stomach.</p><p>He thrusted into her as a rhythm thumped into being.</p><p>His hands wandered softly, from her hips to between her shoulder blades. Bellamy pulled her hair, sitting up to hold her, and she moaned as she rubbed her clit in soft circles.</p><p>Unblemished skin threw her arms over scarred, freckling shoulders, rolling them over while holding his soft lips between her hard teeth. Their rhythm stuttered, before it picked up with her soft moans.</p><p>They were such a stupid oxymoron. His brows pinched.</p><p>"Clarke," he whispered in her mouth, and he came without realizing he was going to. It was a rush of cold water against him. His stomach dropped, pressing his elbows into the mattress near her head.</p><p>She assaulted her clit, and he felt bad for half a second, before she came too.</p><p>Clenching, she whimpered his name back at him. All three syllables. Her hips spasmed back and forth. Learning from last time, he didn't overwhelm her through her orgasm and stayed still. He let her have power, bruising or caressing her clit as she pleased.</p><p>She twitched one last time, before collapsing beneath him.</p><p>He went down with her.</p><p>She fidgeted for a comfortable spot, heaving, and he felt the slick of them. Her core, inner thighs, all over his lap: it was all sticky. Exhaustion whispered in his ear, and then smacked him upside the head. Clarke tucked her chin into his shoulder and he nuzzled her hair.</p><p>He kissed her neck, and rolled over, taking her with him as he slipped from her core. She tightened her legs, pushing her knees together roughly.</p><p>
  <em>Don't feel shame. Don't be sorry.</em>
</p><p>"I've done that before."</p><p>He tensed at her guilt, then thumbed her shoulder. She continued, "with girls, and a little with… Finn-"</p><p>"Cool."</p><p>Her shoulders eased. "You don't care."</p><p>"I don't care." He opened his eyes, trying to see through euphoria. "I have too, with…" his brows furrowed.</p><p>Roma and Bree were as fun as they were his demons. Gina was a sweet girl he couldn't understand. He and Raven didn't talk about their odd adventure. He didn't even remember anyone else's name.</p><p>She chuckled, pressing a kiss to his chin. "I don't care either." They don't need sleep, but right then, sleep was very alluring. His bed was in shambles, her hair was in tangles, and his emotions were indecipherable.</p><p>Them being together did that sometimes. Caused chaos.</p><p>So he fell asleep.</p><p>..</p><p>Between his brows as he lay in bed, he was kissed goodbye.</p><p>Bellamy hummed tiredly in response. His eyes jolted open as a blanket is tucked up his hips. "I'm heading home," she said. "My mother is expecting me." <em>She was leaving.</em></p><p>An urge to cocoon in his blanket was intense. His mouth screwed shut unwilling to say a thing, but she answered him anyway. "It was wonderful. Please know that." She gave him an honest smile. "I'll be here tomorrow." She glanced salaciously at where she could imagine his cock to be, and he felt himself harden embarrassingly fast. "May we meet again," she murmured. Then, she was gone.</p><p>He whispered, "May we meet again," to himself, flipping over, feeling indiscriminately happy.</p><p>See, she gave him her virginity, and for it, he traded his heart, his soul. He couldn't decide if the trade was fair.</p><p>It didn't feel fair, not on her end, anyway.</p><p>
  <em>. .</em>
</p><p>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>end of part two.</em>
</p><p><br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Persephone: Clarke</p><p>Hades: Bellamy</p><p>Poseidon: Wells</p><p>Zeus: Pike</p><p>Demeter: Abby</p><p>Dionysos: Monty</p><p>Hephaestus: Raven</p><p>Artemis: Niylah</p><p>Hermes: Jasper</p><p>Aphrodite: Harper</p><p>Apollo: Gabriel</p><p>Athena: Diyoza</p><p>Hera: Hannah Green</p><p>Ares: Murphy</p><p>. .</p><p>:D oh look at them being happy. Hm</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. a bell goes off</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>List of the gods and their counterpart at bottom. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>MANIA</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(obsessive love)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He decided to visit Octavia the next day so he couldn't obsess over every word Clarke had said.</p><p>Maybe, she would have some insight. Humans seemed to know many things. His steps crunched the leaves like they always did in the autumn, all the way into town. They felt like trite steps. His focus was splintered. On Clarke, on Pike, on himself.</p><p>The mapmaker's son, Carter, waved to Bellamy, and Lincoln, who was selling apples, ran up to him.</p><p>"Hey, Bell," Lincoln said, brown eyes mirthful. He lisped as he talked. "Wouldja like an apple?" Bellamy produced two coins from the abyss of his hand, worth far more than any apple. Lincoln's grin widened when he saw them, picking his very best fruit. It was a bright red, round and bruised. Bellamy smiled, biting his treat.</p><p>There was no crunch, no burst of juice.</p><p>It was sand in his mouth. He almost coughed on it. It crumbled in his hand. Lincoln's eyebrows raised, confused. Bellamy stared into his palm as the wind stole the ashes. Lincoln slumped to his knees. The basket tumbled, apples spilling out, bruising in the dirt. Bellamy stood frozen, anxiety thrumming through him. The people smiled, chatting, and then they fell like apples. They collapsed from rotting trees, aging rapidly and slowly all at once. He watched them shamble. Time had never been slower, and he had been alive for thousands of years.</p><p>Lincoln cried out, peeling at his skin like he wanted to rip it from his skeleton. "Bell," he sobbed, watery eyes latching onto him. "It hurts."</p><p>He was numb.</p><p>Carts crashed and people screamed. He was still amongst the chaos, and anything but comfortable. A woman hugged her baby. A man held them both. Two boys held hands. <em>Bellamy. Bellamy</em>. An orange butterfly sat in a blonde girl's hair, dying with her.</p><p>He turned to the forest.</p><p>It was a path of death, black as coal, branches decomposing. His shoulder burned like a hand was grappling it. <em>Pike</em>. Pike was killing everything. Anything organic, anything that could smile, or cry. Everything that breathed. Anyone he cared for.</p><p>Bellamy's vision blurred as he heard the people sob. <em>Help us. Help us.</em></p><p>
  <em>I can't. I can't.</em>
</p><p>The horses had neighed in the stables on his right. Then, they didn't. Things had become quiet like they shouldn't. Bellamy was out of his head. When the butterfly finally fell, light and wispy, it hit the ground like an earthquake. In a ball, Lincoln lay, wrinkling into dust.</p><p>"Bell-" Lincoln tried, a final breath. Bell.</p><p><em>Octavia</em>. Panic set in as everything finally caught up to him. It felt like there were hands erupting from the dirt to pull him back to Tartarus. He had to get to her before Pike did. He had to stay standing: <em>had to.</em></p><p>For a god, he was not a fast runner. He ran as fast as he could.</p><p>He chased her soul between the alleys, reaching for her hand, her hair, her laugh. <em>Where was she? </em>His feet ached. They must have been bloody, filled with rocks and sticks and death. Black with skeletons.</p><p><em>Bell</em>.</p><p>A bell went off when you died, be it of those new Christian churches or the sobbing of orphaned children. A bell went off. This child. She was a bright one.</p><p>"Bell!"</p><p>It came from above him, excited and alive. His breathing stuttered in relief. She leaned over the edge of a building's roof, hair held back by a red ribbon—on any other day, he would have reprimanded her—but her eyes were <em>living</em>. Octavia was alive, hair tangled with sticks. She jumped down on him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders: <em>alive</em>. He hugged her: it was a blessing Pike didn't hurt her.</p><p>(Bellamy was stupid. He had always been stupid like that.)</p><p>The path of death caught up to him. Her breathing shifted, eyes tearing up in confusion. He watched as her fingers blackened on his shoulders. Her nails fell off.</p><p>It was <em>him</em>.</p><p>His lungs quit breathing. He had been so blinded by desperation. He should've <em>known</em>. He should've <em>left</em>. (He never should've come.) He had known this would happen. Humans had suffered because of him before. And they were now too. Octavia was suffering. Loving things had never been a privilege of his. Bellamy hugged her beneath her arms, cradling her head to his shoulder. Her dark hair jangled in his fingers like chains. The ribbon slipped from its knot, his sanity, undoing itself. Bellamy didn't know what to do.</p><p>"<em>Bellamy</em>."</p><p>His soul fluttered. His name hurt, but all he could do was hold her.</p><p>His <em>name</em>.</p><p>Clarke was the goddess of life, and grain, and prosperity. Clarke could fix this; she had to. <em>Clarke</em>.</p><p>"O," he pleaded, voice cracking and husky; she whimpered. "I need you to call…" he couldn't, he couldn't, his lips refused to form the sounds as tears tore down his cheeks, ripping a heart he didn't have apart, brick by brick by brick. "<em>Persephone</em>." The girl's eyes watered as her cheeks hollowed. He squeezed his gaze, pulling her into his chest, like he could hug death away from her. He sobbed '<em>Persephone</em>', again and again and again.</p><p>"Percy. Persephone." His voice felt like a shattering yell, but it was barely a whisper, "<em>May we meet again."</em> He pressed a shaky kiss to her forehead.</p><p>Octavia was catatonic, pliant in his hands, but she breathed suddenly, a realization, "<em>Clarke</em>."</p><p>He sobbed, shaking as relief shattered his strength. In a swirl of orange autumn and ashes, a girl stood, basket in hand. The leaves fluttered to the ground, soon to be dust. She blinked her confusion away when she saw them. Agony filled her eyes as she fell to her knees before them, fruit tumbling from the basket. He could imagine how this looked: ratchet, unsettling. Clarke reached out, taking the little girl into her arms. Immediate exhaustion etched into her face.</p><p>"<em>Clarke</em>," he said, teeth heavy with his tongue. "Clarke, help her."</p><p>Tears trailed down his cheeks as his empty fingers knocked on the door of dirt: let him in, (let them out, let them <em>live</em>.)</p><p>"We have to get her to Artemis," she ordered tensely, already heaving with exertion. She held Octavia close, kept her breathing. "I can't do this for too long."</p><p>"I <em>can't</em>."</p><p>His frustration was so prominent, he could strangle it. Her eyes flared: "after this," she grunted bitterly, "any banishment should be void."</p><p>"It won't be."</p><p>Her mouth gaped, closing and opening: tears betrayed her otherwise terrifying strength. Her cheeks were so pink and lush with colour, so opposite of O, who was pasty and thin, and maybe dead:</p><p>"Go," he said—<em>begged</em>.</p><p>For a moment, she stared, rushing to say, "May we meet again." Then, in another swirl of brown leafy ashes, they were gone. There were no melodic birds, or crickets, or children running in the street. He sat in the ruins of Arkadia, with a ribbon in his lap.</p><p>He had chosen this place. They paid the price dearly. He was ruination.</p><p>Bellamy was responsible for this, and it was quieter than any library Finn had run. A desperate, empty sob left him as he slammed his hands into the dirt. It shook the bones. It woke no one.</p><p>They were all sleeping.</p><p>..</p><p>He stayed longer than he thought possible, staring between his knees at the damp soil. Night crept in, once, and then twice, but there was not a sound in the woods. He'd heard the pads of an animal's feet earlier, before a howl of pain and a skitter of snapping sticks.</p><p>Wolves ran from him.</p><p>His knees had numbed hours ago, and his knuckles were raw from pummeling the dirt. Dust hovered around him, and it came to a point where there were no recognizable bodies, just skeletons. Just blackness and death.</p><p>A gale took it away in a swirl for the third time.</p><p>He crushed the dirt in his fingers. A goddess fell onto his back, holding and hugging him together. Her palm slipped over where his heart would be. She smelled metallic, like coins in his palm, like fresh blood, contrasting the overpowering stench of over-cooked meat and spoiled grass that he had marinated in.</p><p>He was tired.</p><p>"She's okay," Clarke said tenderly, a breath on his ear, "she's <em>okay</em>." He nuzzled into her hair, pushing his weight back on her. His hand lifted to guard her head, keep the pain out. "I'm sorry." His eyes closed. Not for a moment had he considered blaming her. "The newest of the gods is Hecate," she whispered. "She was made today." Her arms tightened around him. She had brought O to Artemis, crafted her into a goddess. "Octavia is angry with you, Bellamy."</p><p>His name. Seven letters, three syllables.</p><p>They slipped again, the tears, like apples, like people. "Octavia-" he choked, and she held him tighter. He was a dam destined to collapse. He was angry too. "I'm a monster."</p><p>"Pike-"</p><p>A voice crack or three: "-Three hundred twenty," his jaw ticked, holding in the sob, but it's impossible, "<em>Lincoln." Crack.</em> Broken voice, broken dam.</p><p>He gripped the ribbon, silky and shiny, scuffed on the edges, breathing a useless breath. He had known something was up, when Pike had talked to him, had known even before then that he should never come to earth. Every step had been a risk and he had taken thousands of them: made ribbons appear, and tugged up carrots, gave out his name, and stole hundreds of books.</p><p>Clarke was crying silently into his neck. <em>I'm sorry, </em>he wanted to say.</p><p>"If you need forgiveness," she forced out, loss thick on her tongue.</p><p>His hand fell to hers on his chest. He pivoted to face her. "Clarke."</p><p>"I'll- give that to you." His lips pressed into hers, hoping to maybe feel something. His knees stuck to the ground. He would've pulled up grass: but it was all dead. Only the ribbon remained tangible, and she took it. She pulled away. Her gaze stuck to the clenched fists in their laps as she softly tied his gift around his wrist, whispering, "You're forgiven."</p><p>His breath stopped.</p><p>A pain shot through him, like she had shoved a hand between his ribs and began clawing them apart. <em>Forgiven</em>. His wrist was so heavy. This pedestal she had him on, it was dangerous. This unhealthy back and forth of anger, and hurt, and secrets, it could kill them. (And they're immortal. That's terrifying.) Pike would kill them.</p><p>This was not just a punishment. It was a warning.</p><p>Pike would never, ever stop: he would find everything Bellamy ever loved, and he would tear it to shreds. Her—he would stomp her to nothing, decimate her into less than he already thought she was. Bellamy was suddenly angry, at her, at Pike, (at himself).</p><p>Aristotle said men think with their hearts. He didn't have one.</p><p>His mouth (heart) decided before his head even could. For a man as sensitive as him, he said cruel words: "if you never came here, they'd be fine." If I never came here: those were the real words. He gritted his teeth, continuing, "people die when-" he choked on his tears, unable to finish the sentence.</p><p>The damage was done.</p><p>Her shock was clear, and her hurt was deafening. She pulled back as though stung, scalded, burned. But the mask rose up, and all traces that he had ever mattered to her were nonexistent. Compartmentalization was a skill of hers he'd never fathomed, never replicated. He wanted to laugh: he'd killed more people than she ever had. <em>He</em> followed her out of curiosity. <em>He</em> did this.</p><p>Bellamy left her there in a pile of ashes, staining her knees black.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>He fed Cerberus, and Miller never questioned the end of his adventures, or why Clarke's visits had ceased, but he did stare. Bellamy never looked the ghosts of Arkadia in the eye.</p><p>Lincoln came to the throne room once.</p><p>"Zeus forbid us from Elysium."</p><p>Bellamy stared over his head. "The odds weren't in anyone's favour already." Only the warriors made it to the fields of gold, after all. The Arkadians weren't warriors.</p><p>"<em>Every</em> Arkadian."</p><p>"What is it you want me to do?" <em>I'm the reason you're dead.</em></p><p>Lincoln relaxed, looking to be in his prime. Twenty-five, and far taller than Bellamy. "I don't know, Bell."</p><p>His eyes wet. He glared. "Bellamy-" he refused to hear Bell ever again.</p><p>Lincoln left. His name was Bellamy.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>He didn't meet Clarke's gaze the next year, staring into his hands. He didn't say a word, not to Pike, Abby or Clarke. Abby was uncharacteristically sad. Pike grinned at him, patting him on the arm as he left. The garden was overlooked; Bellamy went home.</p><p>He didn't meet Octavia's gaze the year after: it was her very first meeting.</p><p>Bellamy sat silently, ignoring Clarke's stares, Octavia's glares, and Pike's grins. She will spend hundreds of years angry with him, the girl of dark hair and satin ribbons.</p><p>(<em>You destroyed my home.</em></p><p><em>Yes, I did.</em>)</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>"Delivery," Miller called, tone reluctant.</p><p>A novel was placed on the shore of the Styx, sinking into the sand, but Bellamy refused to touch it. The next time Miller rowed by, Bellamy watched him pick it up, another book already in hand. Miller frowned, before setting them both in his craft and drifting away.</p><p>Miller might have felt bad for him, but he was never kind.</p><p>Weekly: "Delivery!"</p><p>Monthly: "<em>Delivery!</em>"</p><p>Then, never again: the books ceased after twenty years. Miller kept rowing.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>He cracked once, asking Miller about the books. Miller shrugged, and offered him a ride. Bellamy refused.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Once, maybe a hundred years later, Octavia came close enough to bruise.</p><p>He'd made it his mission to stay away. Never, did he visit the garden, or stop to chat. But Pike held him up, criticizing his lack of ruthlessness when it came to the torture of humans. Bellamy was just tired. So when he left the room, Octavia was waiting against the wall. His throat caught as his eyes attached to her. Goodness, O had grown into a strong woman.</p><p><em>Crack</em>.</p><p>He took a blow across the cheek and he wasn't even startled. <em>I hate you. I hate you.</em> She kicked him in the stomach. He felt nothing. I hate you. A dullness. She beat him, beat him black and blue as he knelt before her, and she was a hundred-and-something and still <em>so angry. </em>He welcomed this. Arm, rib, temple. Every lash felt like release.</p><p>Then, a blow didn't connect.</p><p>He glanced up to see Clarke between them, wiping her cheek. It swelled red. Rage surged through Bellamy as he tried to push to his feet, failing when Clarke held out a patient hand: stop.</p><p>It was silent, and anger permeated from all three of them, all for different reasons. Anger is rarely simple. Clarke stared down at Octavia, who heaved like she was the one who had been beaten. She spun on her heel, hair twirling after her in a flurry, and she returned to Niylah's side. Niylah's face scrunched in passive concern.</p><p>Artemis and Hecate.</p><p>Persephone knelt beside him as he helped himself up by languid wrists. Her palm pressed into his shoulder and he felt a surge of heat permeate from her skin to his. She was healing him with her power.</p><p>It made him want to relax into it, but then he felt Pike's eyes. He had witnessed Bellamy's beating with a grin, and he was already curious about Hecate's supposed hatred toward him. How would he perceive this? Clarke's kindness. Abby watched too, less caring.</p><p>He slapped her hand away, and stood.</p><p>She knelt before him, and he should've spat, or cursed a defamation in her ear, but no matter what Pike or Abby would've thought, he couldn't say that to her.</p><p>"Clarke, just-" Pike stared, "just stop," he murmured. She startled, and nodded.</p><p>Never again did she approach with open arms.</p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <em>end of part three.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>. .</em>
</p><p>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>two-thousand years later.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>1873 AD:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the gods have fallen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>now they burn.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>..</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ersephone: Clarke</p><p>Hades: Bellamy</p><p>Poseidon: Wells</p><p>Zeus: Pike</p><p>Demeter: Abby</p><p>Dionysos: Monty</p><p>Hephaestus: Raven</p><p>Hecate: Octavia</p><p>Artemis: Niylah</p><p>Hermes: Jasper</p><p>Aphrodite: Harper</p><p>Apollo: Gabriel</p><p>Athena: Diyoza</p><p>Hera: Hannah Green</p><p>Ares: Murphy<br/>..<br/>If I've made any glaring historical mistakes or plot holes, please let me know :) thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. freedom an ghosts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>List of the gods and their counterpart at bottom. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>two-thousand years later.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>1873 AD:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the gods have fallen.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>now they burn.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>..</em>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>PRAGMA</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(goal-oriented love)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>His chest is empty, lacking beat.</p><p>The walls are empty too. There is a ribbon around his wrist, one that denies erosion. Anger simmers in his bones.</p><p>He's spent millennia beneath the boot of an insecure god. He will spend millennia more. He is alone; the day he most dreads and most anticipates has arrived.</p><p>It's time for a meeting.</p><p>..</p><p>The first time he truly <em>sees</em> it, he feels like burning it all to the ground.</p><p>He walks through the gate and just outside the meeting room, Pike has Clarke pushed up against the wall. She stares dead into nowhere, and Bellamy almost blows all his silence, all his years of obedience, into nothing. He's so much stronger than this, than Pike.</p><p>Her mother beats him to it.</p><p>"Zeus," she says coolly, shoulders tense. "You have a meeting to run." His eyes flicker to Bellamy's.</p><p>As Pike strides away, Bellamy watches Abby glare before running to her daughter. Still, Clarke stares into nowhere. She leans back against the wall for support, and he only walks by, unable to stop himself from sparing a glance. Abby whispers. Clarke shakes her head.</p><p>They move on.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Bellamy sits at the table.</p><p>Before, Pike rarely listened to her, but now he leers when she speaks. She still speaks. She will not be silenced. Rage bites his tongue, but Clarke looks him in the eye, curtly shaking her head. No.</p><p>Octavia knocks on the table, drawing attention. "The grounders are terrible." It sounds hollow.</p><p>"Thank you," Pike answers with exasperation.</p><p>Her brow nearly twitches. As the god embellishes, she rolls her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>It's easier to ignore her situationwhen she isn't there. When he's alone in his home, watching the Styx flow. Lonelier too. He dusts his books. <em>She'll be fine, </em>he tells himself. <em>She's strong.</em></p><p>"Delivery!" Miller's shouts.</p><p>Bellamy startles from his chores. Panic locks his joints and for a bare second, he can't move. It's been at least eight centuries since the last one—<em>why?</em> (Is it terrible to admit he felt a little excitement too?)</p><p>The sand is cool between his toes. He didn't realize he'd moved.</p><p>It sank, old and frail, into the damp sand. On the bank, he picks it up, flipping through it, looking for a message in the pages. There is none. But she sent it for a reason. He knows that. He translates and examines and reads it and <em>reads it again</em>. There is no message.</p><p>So he hugs it to his chest, like some sort of promise.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Out of worry, he heads for the garden after the meeting for the first time in a couple thousand years.</p><p>He can't touch the plants anymore, but there is a beauty in watching. After all, he can't touch her either. He is excited to see her though, despite himself. She'll dance through the garden, feeding the birds, and she'll ask the nymphs how their year was. Then, she'll ask him, arms crossed.</p><p>"Fine," he'll say, as he has said, every time she has managed to ask him.</p><p>But she doesn't do those things this year. She is too busy. She sits on their old bench. Her sunburnt shoulders are tense, tight through her collarbone, and she holds her tongue.</p><p>Pike grasps her elbow, leaning over her.</p><p>She says nothing. Her eyes hold steady, and her lips thin into a line. He takes her chin in his hand, and runs over her lip with his thumb. Rage pours over Bellamy as he watches, waves and tsunamis of it. The nymphs all look to each other, concerned, but they do nothing. He can do <em>only</em> nothing, for as long as he's stuck in hell, and she's here, it will only worsen.</p><p>He's plenty strong enough to stop it, and that only makes him feel worse.</p><p>If he did stop it, she'd be so angry. <em>The risks! </em>she'd say, <em>Think with your head. He's trying.</em></p><p>But Pike grasps her thigh, scrunching the fabric around it and-</p><p>Pike relaxes his hand, meeting Bellamy's gaze smugly, directly, intentionally. He knew. Bellamy wants to look him straight in the eye—he can—<em>use your head</em>—he cowers, eyes falling to his toes.</p><p>Then, Zeus is gone.</p><p>She is tense, and her knees fold to her chest. He should go. He should leave. Her feet are mucky. Her eyes are wet. She does not cry.</p><p>He doesn't want to see her cry.</p><p>She stares up at him, and he realizes he stepped his way in front of her. Clarke is heavy, like her burden is trying to rip her through the bench. He sits, and the bench only becomes heavier, dirtier. "He wants my virginity," she whispers, nudging his elbow with hers, before tightening her arms around her knees.</p><p>"You could tell him you aren't…" he trails off, already aware of how terrible of a suggestion that was.</p><p>"Who am I to say I gave it to?" He shrugs. For their first conversation, it's going well. Maybe a bit odd, but well. He remembers the book. How hard he scoured it, and came away with nothing. "He wants humanity."</p><p>"He wants everything," Bellamy finishes, leaning forward on his thighs to watch the fountain spew water. He wishes to go back to thinking she was delusional, to thinking humanity was irrelevant. To before.</p><p>It was easier, not caring. Before her.</p><p>"I just want to be left alone." Her tone is even, unidentifiable.</p><p>"I know." <em>Me too.</em></p><p>He is next to her, silent, but nothing seems to fit like it used to. The fountain is the only constant. "How is she?" he asks, canting toward the rose bush on his right, hand hovering over a flourishing bud. It is white, and lush.</p><p>Her legs fall down, and they kick at the dirt. Her palms press into the bench.</p><p>"You should ask her." She glances at him. "She'd love to talk to you." He coughs a depreciative laugh, staring at the rose. "She's grown, Bellamy." He wants to hold it. "She knows what Pike did, and she's sorry."</p><p>"You told her?"</p><p>"I did." He has so many questions. <em>And she believed you? Forgave me? </em>Instead, he says:</p><p>"Doesn't matter." He pulls his hand away. "It doesn't make a difference."</p><p>"It does to me."</p><p>"It isn't about you."</p><p>She glares, feet stalling. "Pike will go for her next." She watches the fountain, brows pinching. "As soon as I break, I need her to have somewhere to go." Because she'll break eventually. Pike's hands will reach too far. "I need you," he swallows, "I need you to promise me you'll take her."</p><p>
  <em>What about you?</em>
</p><p>He doesn't ask that question, turning to the stupid rose. The perfect, precious rose. He plucks it, snapping the end. The petals cripple with rapid age, carving into dust and blackness on his fingers.</p><p>It dies faster than the humans did.</p><p><em>What about you?</em> They're talking about when she'll break, so she must be close. Erosion has battered her ankles, and she can't hold the weight. He turns to her, slipping the dying flower snug behind her ear, and though she shouldn't, she leans into his touch. He is lonely and misses her. Her gaze pulls him in, and he loses himself, willing to give anything for Pike to stop. For her to be free. She says, <em>use your head</em>, and he answers, <em>No</em>. The words slip before he knows what they are.</p><p>"Marry me."</p><p>Her eyes shoot open as she retracts. His breath stutters in panic.</p><p>Then, he realizes: it's actually <em>brilliant</em>, and so he rambles on, "In their-<em>his</em> eyes, you'll be my property." He twiddles the ribbon on his wrist. "Octavia can come with you without suspicion. Pike will never have the <em>opportunity</em>-" he takes a breath. "They wouldn't lay a toe down there." <em>Out of fear.</em></p><p>It's pragmatic, not romantic. It is.</p><p>"I did," she says, looking to the fountain, "once."</p><p>He can see the stick crown that was once on her head, the challenging quirk in her lips. Who she used to be. Bellamy doesn't like when she makes him feel, makes him wonder.</p><p>"This isn't obligation," he offers, dragging his heels from flat on the grass, back to his toes. The trail crumples into ash. Neither mention it. She opens her mouth, but he blocks her with his own words. "You'll be free. You'll be safe. I'm busy. It just gives you a place to stay and a boundary Pike wouldn't dare disrespect."</p><p>She smiles softly at him, patiently, like she was waiting for him to stop.</p><p>Lastly, he adds. "He's afraid of hell, the bastard."</p><p>"Okay."</p><p>His eyes widen: so simple, just <em>okay, I'll trust you. Okay, I'll marry you. Okay, I'm fine with it. Okay, I'm yours</em>. "Okay," he echoes.</p><p>"Tomorrow," she decides, standing to brush herself off.</p><p>Tomorrow it is.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>There are books lining the walls of Clarke's to-be-bedroom.</p><p>He stacks them in the hall so she has more space. Clutching the handle, he stands in the doorway, staring at the vacant room. The bed is made. The floor is pale marble, cool under his toes.</p><p>The room is left naked.</p><p>Bellamy hopes this can be home to her. He wonders if she still traces her fingers endlessly along the spines of dusty books, picks the dying flowers, or sits near her loved and lost mortals' graves. He wonders if she's even allowed on earth anymore. He hopes, so deeply, that this is enough, and knows, all the same, that it isn't.</p><p>"Is that other bed for your <em>wife?</em>"</p><p>Jolting, he twists around to find <em>Octavia</em>. Taller, stronger, older: he hasn't spoken to her—or been this close to her—since she- since she struck him, and before that: when he loved her into the grave.</p><p>"She isn't my-" thr door creaks, "not yet."</p><p>Her carved brows arch. "Only in about eight hours," she corrects herself teasingly, like it's the norm. It brings him back to things. It's odd to still see her as the fourteen she was when she died. Even odder though, is to see she still looks at him like he was her big brother, after killing Lincoln, after years of being broken and breaking him with her words and her hands.</p><p><em>She's grown, </em>Clarke said. Her grin falls at his silence.</p><p>"What are you doing here?" he asks softly: what else is there to say?</p><p>She glances away. "A wedding needs witnesses to be legitimate, no? And I'd like to get to know my neighbours." It is a lighthearted sentence, but it holds the weight of their history, and that is no shallow burden.</p><p>Octavia has always loved confusing him. He stares down at her, and- and- he can't seem to get a thought out. Her hand stretches for his: he flinches. She recoils.</p><p>He gives back what he is given tenfold: vulnerability, terror. He slips his hand forward, and grabs hers, pushing through his fear of contact.</p><p>What if she withers right before his eyes?<em> Again.</em></p><p>She caves, her pale fingers untying the ribbon at his wrist. It delicately slips, like it hasn't been sitting there for two thousand years. Like it hasn't been a risk made of sentimentality.</p><p>Octavia holds it in her palm and squeezes her fist.</p><p>There is a wall made of glass between them. He can see the other side, but he can't get there. "A wedding gift." Her palm opens: there are two.</p><p>A crow and a ruby, embodied in silk.</p><p>Wrapping him into a hesitant hug, she whispers no apologies, just empty words. He stands stiff, expecting her to crumble. <em>May we meet again, and again, and again</em>. Maybe he'll cripple into dust this time, make it easier.</p><p>She tied a ribbon around each of their wrists.</p><p>She doesn't say, "<em>I'm sorry,"</em>; it's doubtful she ever will. If O apologized, she'd have to admit what she did. How wrong it was. It's not who she is. He can still feel the sting of her hands on him; she barely left a mark.</p><p>That wasn't the part that hurt.</p><p>He says it. He's been waiting years to say it. "I'm sorry." He'll say it forever. It is who he is. She hums, and tightens her hold. Octavia has always loved a lot of useless things.</p><p>Maybe he was one of them.</p><p>(it isn't fixed, but some things look better broken.</p><p>some things don't.)</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>It is to be an easy ceremony, in the pits of hell.</p><p>He has demons rushing around, legitimizing the affair. Two crowns—an ancient Grecian tradition—are brought to him. They are white and dainty, but he'd prefer if they were made of sticks.</p><p>He'd prefer many things.</p><p>Clarke arrives early to help set up, and he feels her when she does. Her soul soothes his nerves.</p><p>She has dirt in her hair and his feet are bare. His chiton is black, and hers is white. Neither are dressed for the occasion.</p><p>It's just them.</p><p>The floor is cold, pale marble, and the room is ebony. The most elegant part is the basket of glowing blue flames hanging from the roof. Miller and Octavia's doing, he's sure.</p><p>Along with their… guests, who arrive just on time, appearing from thin air.</p><p>The goddess and demon gathered souls together, from the tortured to the infants who didn't make it through winter. They stand ready, and confused.</p><p>Bodiless souls are at their wedding. Lovely.</p><p>O has her hands pressed together in excitement. She stands in the front row, and is more dressed up than Clarke, which is amusing. Gold pins light up her hair: her ribbon shimmers. His own feels warm.</p><p>Clarke and Bellamy stand an inch from one another.</p><p>The air is heavy, like maybe there are words unsaid. "Let's get this over with," she settles on, daring a glance up at him. And she marches, her hair trailing after her, curly and golden. Distracting. It's terribly beautiful. He has a slight bias. He should join her before he disturbs the schedule.</p><p>He quickens his steps.</p><p>Miller stands before them when they stop, smirking and placing the crowns on their heads. "Am I queen now, my king?" she whispers to Bellamy as Miller steps back, tilting her head. She tells the worst jokes sometimes, but she has a charm. He keeps his features schooled. They haven't joked with each other in centuries; he didn't know it was allowed. She nudges his ankle with her toe and the corner of his mouth curves up. <em>Allowed: </em>he's never been allowed a thing.</p><p>Together, they each hold out a hand.</p><p>Six pomegranate seeds fall into their palms. He knows what this is, binding her to him. Him to her. Clarke doesn't even hesitate.</p><p>He does, for a second.</p><p>The air is warm. The ghosts are watching. <em>This isn't what I wanted</em>, he thinks, remembering how malleable she was under his hands. He remembers how she felt above him, clutching his hair. How she grinned at him, how she held him, how she brought him books, and shared Madi with him. How she might have loved him, once.</p><p>He hesitates, because for all the <em>millennia</em> he fantasized of having Clarke again, this was never it.</p><p>Her eyes study him, grey, and hard. This is a pragmatic union, one with mutual benefits. For her, he will give his protection. He wants her and O safe. That is enough of a profit for him. It is smart, and boring.</p><p>Marriage shouldn't feel like this, not with her: he tosses six seeds in his mouth. They taste sweet (so far from ashes), popping one by one under his teeth.</p><p>His lips stain red.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Dancing has never been his forté.</p><p>The music thumps in the teal firelight. Soft flutes sing, and violins have dancers on them, jumping the strings. Octavia spins with the souls, laughing with the dead.</p><p>She runs into Lincoln.</p><p>Bellamy watches from his chair as a ghost and a goddess recognize each other, her eternally seventeen, and his soul glowing blue in the age of twenty-five.</p><p>He supposes one good thing came from Pike condemning Arkadia to hell.</p><p>He is pulled from his stupor by Clarke, who tugs him onto the floor. "They've found each other," she whispers to him as she settles in front of him, prepared. Dancing isn't a skill of hers either, clearly. Being good at it is not a requirement. She stomps his toes and tucks into his chest, a hugging dance. They sway and they stutter, tripping on each other's ankles.</p><p>Determination is who Clarke is, so with each step out of time, her commitment to the dance only deepens.</p><p>He's missed her. Just having her near is enough to relieve his shoulders.</p><p>Sweat runs down his temples and nose, dripping into her hair where his cheek rests. Bellamy spins her out tritely, pulling her back in. Hair twirling, her white crown shakes on her head:</p><p>"I'm sorry," it's her who whispers it into his ear this time, settling back in his arms.</p><p><em>For what?</em> he wants to ask, loitering his feet. They drag. Her arms wrap underneath his armpits and chiton, hands splaying over the bronze skin of his back. Bellamy's thumb rubs her ribs. <em>For what? </em>Knowing her, it's for everything.</p><p>"And thank you."</p><p><em>Thank you for giving me an out,</em> she means.</p><p>He is not dumb. Bellamy knows exactly why she is apologizing, and why she is showing gratitude. For Arkadia, for Octavia, for this commitment: she is taking the rest of his infinite time into the palm of her tiny hands.</p><p>Her heart beat is strong against his ribs.</p><p>"I'm sorry too."</p><p>She knows. As he looks her in the eye, every sin he wishes he could take back greets him. Every death: from Lincoln, to Finn. From Walden to Phoenix. They rest in the deep beds(graves) of blackness beneath his eyes. The music rumbles heavily in his ears. Maybe, he can pretend he has a heartbeat, timed with hers and the violin. She keeps him centred, because regardless of what sits between their ribs, he's the one who follows his heart, or he takes hers.</p><p>They're married. Her sins are his, her heart is his, and vice versa.</p><p><em>Thump. Thump, </em>her heart says. He doesn't speak the language, but he can understand it.</p><p>"You're forgiven," she says softly, and maybe his empty chest collapses. The words fill him like they should've the first time they were said: two thousand years ago. So much for pretending. "<em>I</em> forgive <em>you</em>."</p><p>
  <em>Thump. Thump.</em>
</p><p>There is no <em>thump, thump</em> to answer, so she spins, and she spins, and he is forgiven.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Everything settles down after a couple of hours.</p><p>The air is musky, and the teal fires simmer down to ashes. The cleaning is done by the demons and the newlyweds. They rub the floors from their knees. It is somber; everyone's breath is heavy. His heels ache.</p><p>It really doesn't take all that long to clean up after ghosts.</p><p>Then, everyone heads off—Octavia, to her shack across the river to catch up with Lincoln, he's sure, and the demons, to spend the week sleeping—but he and Clarke, newly married, head off to separate rooms.</p><p>She opens the door to her chambers and enters. He stays in the hall, watching her evaluate the empty wall, his gift. "Thank you," she whispers as she lifts her palm to it, stretching her fingers on it.</p><p>It's enough though. It has to be.</p><p>..</p><p>
  <strong> <em>PHILIA</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>(affectionate love)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>His eyes are blurry in the morning.</p><p>He knows he doesn't need sleep, but what else is there? He never had the useless things the humans do, like cookers or whatever they are called. He didn't need them.</p><p>There is nothing to do, never has been. Not down here.</p><p>It's like a constant test of patience. He can't even fathom how he managed it before the gift of literature.</p><p>His house is a square: a throne room, two bedchambers and a hall. Everything was ebony, and matte. Sentimentality just gave him a chest ache. He didn't attach to anything materialistic. His life was empty.</p><p>Except the books, which he'd lined the walls in piles nearly as tall as him. He rubs his eyelids with his inner forearm, holding in the yawn.</p><p>Now, even aching, it's lovelier.</p><p>Just her possessions add so much, shiny rocks, and funky buttons, bouncing off the walls like stars in the sky, drawing his gaze.</p><p>Clarke zips around the room.</p><p>Her chiton is light on her shoulders, unlynched at the waist, leaving much to the imagination. The gold on her head is spun into tangles. She is a morning massacre.</p><p>"Do you not have <em>food?</em>" she asks. He shrugs.</p><p>"I don't need it."</p><p>She turns on him, eyes flared. "But it tastes so good!" Her gaze shoots around the room, concussing off every surface- "-Can I paint the walls?" Her thumb lifts to chart the dark bricks, and in her eyes he can see all the dreams. How in the world is she going to paint bricks? There is an empty wall in her room, but saying no to her is hard. Besides, he doesn't really want to say know.</p><p>In fact, he doesn't quite know what to say, so he says nothing, nodding instead.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Every day after is scarily similar.</p><p>He emerges from his bed, hair mussed, scratching his jaw, and she is there to greet him with morning wishes and a chunk of lead behind her ear. She doesn't sleep, he realizes. She paints his bricks fancy blues instead, and he orders his demons around, gathering her more and more colours.</p><p>"How long until they notice, you think?" she asks once, thumbing an orange smudge she can't get rid of.</p><p>"Don't worry about it," he says—Bellamy has done his best to ignore that part—but she thinks with her head.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>One morning, he emerges, stubbing his toes on a book.</p><p>It scrapes across the floor, challenging him. Bellamy bends groggily to pick it up, tracing his finger along the gold trim and title. <em>Walden</em>, it says. He can see the pup, dark and excitable, who had knots in his fur.</p><p>She's been to earth.</p><p>Book in hand, he chases desperation to find her. And when he does, she's standing on her tippy toes, painting highlights into an evergreen tree. She startled at his speed.</p><p>On her brush, a bristle sticks up like a cowlick.</p><p>His hesitation has to be somewhere, but not here, not now; not with her. Bellamy falls sideways into the wall with sudden weariness, energy unexpectedly drained. <em>The paint is dry, </em>he thinks as he holds out <em>Walden</em> by Henry David Thoreau.</p><p>It nudges her.</p><p>His breath quickens. "Bellamy," she prods gently, brushing his cheek down to shoulder, before taking the novel into her hands.</p><p>"Earth."</p><p>He was so sure: "No." He blinks. "I sent Emori. I haven't really been since…" <em>Arkadia</em>, she gulps, twiddling her brush. "It's a wedding gift, belated I guess."</p><p>Her fingers are delicate on the leather. "Tell me about them."</p><p>Her head cants to the side, curls of her hair falling stagnant. She says, "I don't know much." He nods encouragingly, and she sighs. If she can tell him anything, he'll be happy. "The Europeans discovered The New World four hundred hundred years ago or so." She turns to the wall, flicking yellow highlights onto her trees. "They're calling it the Americas."</p><p>"That's good," he says.</p><p>She pauses. "No." Humanity reigns hell on each other, apparently. It can be hilarious, how they destroy each other. "It's called racism," she thumbs the top of her brush, trying to squeeze every drop of pigment dry. There is a weariness in her gaze, he realizes. The dark skin, thick nest of hair, and flakey freckles. He'd be on the horrid end of it. It makes him stand taller, and her cheeks break from a cringe into a soft smile.</p><p>Proud, maybe.</p><p>"Our marriage would not be welcomed."</p><p>He grins. "It isn't welcome anywhere." She rolls her eyes.</p><p>He hears of slaves—there always seems to be slaves—and disease-ridden blankets, and schools that rip the identity from children by the roots of their hair, all because they speak a different tongue.</p><p>It angers him.</p><p>"They are terrible," he decides, flipping absentmindedly through <em>Walden</em>.</p><p>She settles on her heels, eyes sad as she sighs. "They aren't all that way." He scoffs rudely, and she glares. It ruffles her. "Are you saying Octavia's that way, or Finn, or even Lincoln?" She turns, looking down on him. "You've judged the masses by the few, sounds like prejudice to me."</p><p>His jaw tics.</p><p>"Are you saying they're all <em>good?</em>" he challenges, clapping his book shut. She does not flinch. "Because even the Arkadians watched O <em>starve</em>, and did nothing."</p><p>She stares at him a minute, perhaps two, or ten seconds. Her brush hangs limply at her side.</p><p>"I don't know."</p><p>Rage runs away with his voice. The thing is: neither of them know, and they've known humans for thousands of years. He doesn't think anyone will ever figure it out, no matter how many stories he reads.</p><p>They've all tried.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>He reads as she paints.</p><p>They bicker about the stupidest things: from philosophy to whether red and yellow mix into orange or purple. It was orange. Clarke was right.</p><p>He brings them some water. One for her, one for him, and one for paintbrushes. Sometimes, there is nothing more refreshing than cool water. Not that they need it.</p><p>It's a principle.</p><p>It becomes amusing though, when she drinks from the wrong cup. Murky paint water sputters out of her mouth for the upteenth time and his laugh breaks through his teeth; he's always had a hard time containing his smirking around her.</p><p>She glares at him, and he shakes his head in good humour, flipping to the next page.</p><p>At some point, the pages blur. At some point, he starts watching her more than the words. At some point, he realizes he never quite escaped her.</p><p>At some tiny, inconsequential point, she glances at him, and he doesn't look away.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Abby is a goddess who holds her head high. The dark waves of her hair squirm.</p><p>On his throne, he sits, leaning his chin on his knuckles. A strong persona. She has never set foot here. So, crossing her arms as though disgusted by breathing his air, she reveals her motive rather quickly: "My daughter hasn't touched a man for twenty-three-hudred years."</p><p>"You seem pretty sure of that."</p><p>She sneers. "You're disgusting."</p><p>Wrath tightens his brow. "She is a goddess," he clutches the wooden armrests, "who can make her own choices-"</p><p>"-Calm down. I wasn't done," Abby says, arms tightly wound over her chest. "I'm here to thank you, Hades, despite my… distaste." He feels his shell crack in shock as she narrows her eyes. "There was no way out, and you seem to love her."</p><p>To his right, he sees movement, Clarke pushing her hand against bricks tensely, the ones of trees. <em>You love her.</em></p><p>"Leave," he demands.</p><p>Abby glances at her daughter, nodding before turning to go. Just before she makes it through the door though, she pauses to say, "There will be consequences, ones I can't stop."</p><p>"There are always consequences."</p><p>Abby's shoulders drop. Clarke calls out, "May we meet again."</p><p>Bellamy's brows raise, heart clenching in recognition. <em>What is she doing-</em></p><p>"May we meet again," Abby whispers back before she is gone.</p><p>Abby loved people in Arkadia too. It was a town that called to the gods. He wonders if she knows Kane was the one of the instigators of Arkadia's demise. And her. And him. They can blame Pike. They really can. They all had their parts though. Blame is tiring.</p><p>Clarke ambles up to him, tapping his shoulder. "You okay?" He nods absently.</p><p>
  <em>You love her.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Months pass, and a day comes.</p><p>It is a day like the many, many others. He rises, and watches her paint a cabin between the trees. Snowflakes appear. Every day, it looks a little more real. "It's Walden," he says, holding up his book to the painting, "life in the woods." Her hesitant grin makes him breathe lighter. They joke and laugh and bicker over the cups, and she drinks from the wrong one. The daily.</p><p>Then, as he lifts water to his lips, a tiredness scurries over him.</p><p>It falls, as most things in his life seem to (like an apple), smashing into a trillion pieces: water rushes from the centre. A river. The pieces are white on the dark floor, and they both stare at them.</p><p>Weakness is heavy on his joints.</p><p>He can't even find the energy to explain himself, so he stares at her. Clarke is quick to check on him, hand cupping his face. "It's started," she whispers, and he tries to decipher his mind; she looks him in the eye, guilty, "I knew this would come."</p><p>He is too dizzy to understand her, but she hauls him to his feet.</p><p>She leads him to his room. She sets him down, and then sits down next to him as he closes his eyes, willing away the fever. Her fingers comb his curls.</p><p>It is a daze, but eventually, he regains his inhibition.</p><p>The first thing he notices is how terribly guilty her eyebrows are, clenched and sad. "They're dying," she says, and her hands trail his arm. "The cycle of seasons is failing, and they're starving."</p><p>"Your mother," he rasps, staring at her cheeks, then lips, then eyes. <em>There will be consequences I can't stop.</em></p><p>Her hand raises to lift hair from his forehead, and she seems to choke on words. "I know, but-" <em>if I never left, if I never, never, never.</em></p><p>"They choose to let the humans have this power over us." His hand slides up to hers, capturing them in his grasp. He's pushing a line he never, ever should. "It's not your fault."</p><p>She squeezes his fingers.</p><p>..</p><p>Pike is an utter asshole. This has been established.</p><p>"I see the frost is taking its toll."</p><p>Bellamy is ready to tear the boundaries of the realms into shreds, ready to stuff Pike's limbs into separate corners of the universe. Blue-tinted flames and hatred permeate the room. Every breath is resentful. Never once, has Zeus stepped foot here: and when he finally does, he comes to mock him. Pike thinks Bellamy cares about whether he lives or dies?</p><p>That's cute.</p><p>So he stares as an answer, full and barrelling, watching as Pike loses his nerve. They will all perish. The only satisfaction Bellamy can receive from the predicament is that Zeus would die too, as slowly and as painfully as the rest. Pike is gaunt, cheeks hollow and eyes tired. His thinness would be concerning, if Bellamy cared. His once muscled arms had become twigs.</p><p>It makes him grin down at the god of the sky. There are no winners, not in hell.</p><p>"I'll be waiting when you grovel," Pike settles on, striding from the room with all the strength he can muster. Clarke is in the door, staring Pike down, and when he laughs at her, she laughs back. He startles.</p><p>Her laugh is full, and forced, and mocking. Her gaze is watery. Defiant, a little angry.</p><p>Then, he lays a hand on her. Bellamy's vision blurs red. He processes her slapping Pike's grip away, but before he knows it Bellamy is towering over him. Pike lies on his back, eyes wide. He presses his foot into his sternum. He feels a spike of panic: <em>the consequences- the- </em>he's so done caring.</p><p>Anger simmers on his bones. He puts his weight on his foot. "<em>Leave</em>," he commands, voice piercing the challenge in the air. "You are not welcome."</p><p>"You were never welcome," Clarke finishes as Bellamy steps back. Her palm presses into his bicep. He feels a power resonate off of them, and he knows Pike sees it too.</p><p>He scrambles away.</p><p>Bellamy is hit with nausea. Sudden, and it brings him to his knees. It is to do with the erosion, but also with Pike. Thousands of years; he's broken free from him. He spat in the face of damnation, and it felt <em>liberating</em>.</p><p>If only he could've done it sooner, been braver.</p><p>Years and years of death, and pain, and all on him. With a crestfallen lift of lips, she whispers, "Arkadia wasn't your fault." Her hand tightens on his. She falls in front of him.</p><p>"But the grounders before that?"</p><p>She says nothing, squeezing her eyes shut. It's an easy choice, really, to slide his thumb over her cheek, brushing away stray hairs and cupping the back of her neck. Bellamy pulls her into his chest, hands shaky. His forehead crooks into her shoulder as he lets out an exhausted sigh. Strength still courses him in the little ways, but will cripple more with every human's death.</p><p>Clarke will blame herself for that too.</p><p>"I'm sorry," she whispers.</p><p>"I signed up for this," he murmurs, cuddling her into him. "You're forgiven."</p><p>They hug for as long as they need, and eventually, she offers because she knows him, "Paint and read?" He is a man desperate for care, and he will force himself out of his comfort zone to keep her happy.</p><p>She knows that, and she hates it.</p><p>He doesn't end up reading. Instead, he tries to sleep: she paints, not the walls, but his hair with her fingers as they relax on his bed. And when they both sleep; a weird limbo forms between them, a constant contact. His fingers at her wrist, ankles locked, her knuckles travelling down his spine.</p><p>They have always been the oddest kind of tactile: the intangible kind, always hovering over this line in the dirt. They push the line, and instead of disappearing, it only moves.</p><p>They sleep together every night after that, in limbo.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Avoidance is not something he's proud of, but he can't deal with her eyes.</p><p>He slips through his home as she creates things he never knew existed on his walls. Rainy days and trees and machines the humans make.</p><p>He would read on his own, if he could summon the strength to. She doesn't initiate much interaction in her guilt, which makes it easier for him. Turning her down is so hard. But he brings her paints, and the sweetest treats. Bellamy sets them near her door once, a tray of the primary colours, a novel, and a cinnamon cookie.</p><p>"I feel we've been here before."</p><p>This time, he doesn't jump, pivoting to see Octavia. Her skin is sickly pale, stark against the ebony halls. Her hair is dulled string, and her sea eyes have shifted into a mushy swamp. She looks as bad as him, maybe worse.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he finds himself saying.</p><p>He and Clarke did this to her. She smiles small, hands thoughtful on her hips. "Don't be, please." He still is. This is for Clarke. Octavia laughs, and stays.</p><p>Stays the day.</p><p>They can't summon the strength to play games, so he tries to read to her. Clarke is happy to see them happy, and sad to see them dying. She braids Octavia's hair like she used to. This is the first she has seen of Octavia since they began to cripple.</p><p>She can't seem to stomach it.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Whenever Clarke found a solution, she didn't bother searching for a better way, or an easier one. It was always her way, or no way, and he never backed down.</p><p>Clarke was stubborn, and still is.</p><p>He is directing Tartarus' souls, all the malnourishment and starvation, when she stomps into his throne room to proclaim her grand solution:</p><p>"Let me go to her."</p><p>Before him, she crosses her arms. This 'solution' has been in the back of both of their minds for months now. He looks up at her from the throne tiredly. Her hair is hassled, and her white feet reflect off the obsidian floor. It is the first he has really seen of her in a few days now.</p><p>"No."</p><p>She expected his answer. There is no shock on her face, but there is anger, heavy and violent. "I <em>have</em> to go back."</p><p>"No," he argues through gritted teeth, hands loose on the arm rests, "you don't."</p><p>Her nostrils flare at him. "I don't take orders from you." Her blue eyes are cruel, calculating. "I can fix this, make it summer!"</p><p>"Clarke-"</p><p>"-they're dying!"</p><p>He pushes to his feet quickly, wearily, but she does not recoil. She leans in, wrinkle strong between her brows. Her hand lifts, with plans of aggression.</p><p>It doesn't go that way.</p><p>"You're going to <em>die</em>," she says desperately, tone quiet, palm pressing into his chest to balance him.</p><p>"I don't <em>care</em>."</p><p>Startled hurt surges on her face. <em>But I care, </em>her eyes say, <em>but I need to save them, to save you.</em></p><p>"Bellamy," she breathes sadly, warm hand fisting black linen tight in her fingers, "lift the bind." He slowly clutches her wrist. They stare into each other's eyes.</p><p>"No." Her eyes flash.</p><p>He is horribly selfish, but he's always known that: visiting earth. Marrying her. These were risks with selfish intentions.</p><p>"I'll make <em>every</em> minute I'm next to you a living hell." It is a promise.</p><p>"At least you'll be here," he whispers. She flinches. Thoughts are as heavy as the unsaid, drawn out on long breaths. Twelve pomegranate seeds bind her to him: they sat in their clasped palms. They were swallowed, and they are irrevocable; for her. She stands before him, close.</p><p>"People die when I'm around."</p><p>It's a kick in the face: he winces and looks over the top of her head at the wall.</p><p>"I-" he swallows, "I didn't-"</p><p>"It doesn't matter," she murmurs, eyes dull. Her arms cross unconsciously, like she was cold. "Lift it." Their hands squeeze her heart; he can feel it pumping. "Trust me." He does.</p><p>It's not about that.</p><p>"<em>Clarke</em>," he begs, maybe whines, "<em>please</em>, Clarke." Doesn't she understand? It doesn't matter who will die to him. She'll be back under Pike. She'll be silenced and trampled, used and abused, <em>touched</em>. His desperation is showing, and his angry shell has cracked. She has caused an earthquake in his body. "Please…" His eyes are weighted and wet, but not a drop falls.</p><p>"Trust me," she pleads, breath shared with him. He swallows. It's an easy bind to break: he has to say the words, with full knowledge and consent of what he is saying, and she would be free. That's what he wants, isn't it?</p><p>Her freedom.</p><p>She presses her lips onto his. Relief courses through him, and a strength he hasn't had in months. He cups her face. His eyes jolt open; <em>she's kissing him. </em>Ripping back, he nearly topples in his step.</p><p><em>No</em>. He will not be manipulated.</p><p>Her eyes flutter open like butterfly wings. He's in the mood to smash butterflies. "Don't trap me here," she says, "You're an ass half the time," his brows pull taut, "but you're a <em>good</em> man." She bites her lip, hesitating, then, "I- need you right now. I need you."</p><p>That's what does it. <em>I need you.</em></p><p>So much for not being manipulated. His protective streak cries out in objection, but Clarke holds steady, a ship on the roughest of waves in the sea:</p><p>"You're free."</p><p>Butterflies sail. He collapses onto his throne in exhaustion, their wings tickling his ears. In silent agony as he stares at his toes. In terror, and self-loathing.</p><p>The small, constantly insecure part of him, is convinced she will leave, except:</p><p>She sits, before him, at his ankles, in some sort of apology and that just won't do. How do they keep ending up on the floor? Her arm lifts, open, in invitation. He is a selfish man, and she knows that. His fingers, calloused and freckled, slip into her scarred pearl-white palm, and she tugs. His descent is graceless, knees impacting dully as her arms slip around him.</p><p><em>It's okay. We're okay, </em>but the tears slip from his eyes.</p><p>Her fingers slide into his hair as he nuzzles her collarbone. He is so tired, locking his wrists at the small of her back. So tired, and stupid. He presses open mouthed kisses to her neck, and she sighs.</p><p>She is free. She is here. He is tired.</p><p>"I wanna fuck you right now," he jokes into her neck, "but I'm so tired."</p><p>She huffs a laugh. "That's no way to speak to a lady."</p><p>With the energy he can muster, he pushes her to her back, trembling to hold himself up above her. He teases, "A virgin no less!" She laughs, pulling him down by the back of his neck. He collapses onto his elbows. Clarke has the strength to hold, and she holds him like letting go would kill her.</p><p>She is free, and she chooses to hold him.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up alone in his bed, and stares.</p><p>Just to check, he reaches behind him. <em>Empty</em>. He doesn't even move after that, playing scenarios through his head. Pike all over her. Her mother watching helplessly. Clarke, holding a smile—a sharp grin even—as tears cripple from her cheeks: seeing her, only once a year. The next meeting is coming up in a week's time. They didn't even get a year together before they were ripped apart.</p><p>Bellamy rolls over, hours later, to find her still not there.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>He takes special effort to walk in strong, appear unaffected, but he knows the hollowness beneath his eyes can't be helped. He is one of the first to arrive, treading to his chair. It is awkward, between him, Pike, Abby, and Hannah. Not a word crawls from their lips as he walks.</p><p>He doesn't much care. His eyes don't stray far from where Clarke will sit.</p><p>Everyone trickles in. Monty and Jasper are selectively ignorant of their sickness, drinking their problems away. Raven limps in, and Wick holds her up the best he can. Murphy looks crazy, face scruffy and eyes red as cherries.</p><p>Bellamy does not have a shred of guilt for Pike, but the rest-</p><p>"-This is unbelievable," Pike starts, gaze piercing Bellamy. His eyes have a yellow tinge.</p><p>Abby tenses. The spot to her right is vacant Bellamy notes as he twiddles his thumbs. Clarke isn't coming. He is numb, head echoing.</p><p>"Honestly, we are being quite stupid," says Diyoza on his left. She is the goddess of strategy, after all, even when weary.</p><p>"How so?" Octavia asks sarcastically across the table, confrontational as always: Diyoza smirks. Octavia's knuckles are blue around the pale bone.</p><p>"I didn't know a marital union meant the starvation of humanity," Niylah delegates to Pike, sitting up straighter.</p><p>Bellamy winces: the marriage was a sham, and the gig's up.</p><p>He has to stop running. He knows Niylah and Octavia mean well, but the gods have always been quick to blame him, or cast him aside and let him take the fall. It's nothing new, and it will never change. At least a few of them care. Of course they do, just not enough to take the brunt for him, or for Clarke. The first, <em>first</em> time she does something for herself, and the whole world falls apart.</p><p>It's sickening.</p><p>He doesn't expect Raven to defend him too, to turn on Abby, the woman she's always sought so much approval from. "She's the one making it eternally winter," she points to Demeter, "killing us."</p><p>"I can't stop this!" Abby's hands slam. Murphy stifles a chuckle, and Raven kicks his shin. Monty and Jasper grimace.</p><p>She isn't here, and she isn't coming.</p><p>He is a selfish, terrible god, but he loves her. The world will burn, yet not a lick of flame will brush her skin. They will burn. They all will, all who are in his way. He will die if he has to.</p><p>Diyoza's lips purse. "What did you do to her?" she asks quietly. He grits his teeth, hands clenching. "How did you-"</p><p>"-Had it ever occurred to any of you," a voice rumbles from the door. Clarke walks into the hall. His breath catches, "that I wanted to?"</p><p>Rules are breaking, and he can't seem to care. <em>They will burn, </em>and she will set the fire. Abby calls her name.</p><p><em>She hadn't come home,</em> he realizes.</p><p>Pike glares. Bellamy feels a petty satisfaction in his gut at the sight of his disdain.</p><p>Clarke pushes her palm into the table.</p><p>"He asked me to marry him, and I said yes," she says, gaze hard, "no plot holes or manipulations." Octavia stares into her lap, and he's sure she is trying not to grin.</p><p>Pike gives a huff of undermining laughter, as though Clarke's words are utterly ridiculous. She is a child to them, after all, unaware of what she wants and what she has.</p><p>Children are smarter than most give them credit for.</p><p>"I won't return to Olympus," Clarke decides, looking him in the eye. Pike's grin falters. "You will die slowly," she stares, "and it will be beautiful."</p><p>Pike scoffs. "The humans will starve, and devour each other." He sneers, folding his arms to lean over the table. "They'll use the bones of their children to pick at their teeth. Strands of their hair to floss."</p><p>Bellamy locks his shoulders. His threat was direct, and straight into her deepest love. She doesn't waver. She is doing this for the humans. In her eyes, freedom is more important than life.</p><p>"I have a deal," she offers.</p><p>"You are a dumb girl." Clarke grins.</p><p>"Maybe."</p><p>"<em>You</em>," Pike growls, pointing a finger at Bellamy. "Let her go."</p><p>"I'm not his." Pike glares. "Not anymore." Murphy throws his head back, cackling, commenting on how juicy the drama is. Abby crosses her arms. "Give them spring."</p><p>Pike answers, "Do it yourself."</p><p>Everyone stares at Clarke, and Bellamy feels useless, and confused, silent like a support beam, but she doesn't hesitate. "No." Pressing her palms down on the table, Clarke grants an ultimatum, "You have two options, die," she rips in a breath, piercing her gaze at every god around the table, even him, "or relinquish <em>all</em> of your power on earth and Bellamy."</p><p>Go to war with every other god.</p><p>"You'd let them die," Monty says, startled, "the humans."</p><p>"If he dies," Clarke answers, glaring at her audience, "I die." He glances at the gods, and they are scared in an admiring way. They look ready to lay down and die.</p><p>Children in the sandbox as it rains and rains.</p><p>She wants humanity free, more than she wants them living, he supposes. Bellamy is aghast, eyes gaping, but his lips curve up, proud. Clarke marches around the table to him, and it is terribly awkward, undermining the whole showdown, but confidently, she snags his hand and pulls him to his feet. His head aches.</p><p>"Let me know when you make up your mind," she finishes, dragging him softly through the door.</p><p>Dragging him home.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Miller is quiet on the boat.</p><p>His oars dig trenches into the black muck of the Styx. The air is thick with… <em>something</em>: dread? regret? pain? His death is coming, hers too.</p><p>"I'm so sorry, man," Miller murmurs, rowing again.</p><p>Clarke is silent, staring into the water. Bellamy's jaw tics as he tries not to sigh. "Me too."</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>The gods are still children, but now they are children who aren't getting their way, no matter the consequences.</p><p>He is in bed with a fever, and Clarke spoons him, until he is too warm, then she gets out of bed to find him a cool cloth. His forehead is warm like the sandy beaches of a hot day.</p><p>Clarke presses the fabric into his forehead. He's barely able to stand on a good day now, and even she's beginning to look wretchedly gangly. He wishes they could all live, and he longs for Clarke to stay with him, to paint his walls and read his books. Bellamy hopes—stomach churning, joints aching, breaths empty—that for once, Pike would hold his life above his pride. She presses a kiss between his brows.</p><p>"It'll be okay," she whispers, squeezing his fingers in her hand.</p><p>It won't be.</p><p> </p><p>. .</p><p> </p><p>Terrified, she wanders the hall, looking for a new book to read to him.</p><p>She is so scared; Clarke could stop this, but she is doing what she has to, trying to make the best call. He is proud of her. <em>He wants this. Remember that,</em> she tells herself.</p><p>Her feet took her straight to Walden.</p><p>When he asked her to marry him, she knew it would go wrong. He did too. They did it anyway, praying for freedom. Like naïve children; she feels her eyes sting. <em>He wants this. </em>Often, she wishes to go back to Arkadia, wishes they stayed out of the forest that dreadful Sunday. Wishes she could've prolonged the inevitable just <em>one</em> day longer.</p><p>She runs her thumb over the title, remembering how strong he was. That night, the one burned into her mind and between her legs, he held her in his arms. He fucked her, and she's sure that he loved her. Then, she held him, after he killed every human he knew. She can't believe the happiest and most broken she's ever felt exist so closely.</p><p>Now, he is dying. Now, he is like a white dandelion, one blow from exploding.</p><p>And it's her fault.</p><p>"Clarke?"</p><p>She startles, looking back to see Octavia standing between the canyon of books</p><p>She leans against the frame, exhausted, heaving. Clarke sets the book down.</p><p>She gasps, "It's over," falling to her knees, but she manages to catch her.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"It's <em>over.</em>"</p><p>Clarke doesn't want to get her hopes up as Octavia passes out in her arms. Pale, tired, starved and broken. Her hopes soar though as her heartbeat thickens.</p><p>
  <em>Thump. Thump.</em>
</p><p>She drags Octavia through the halls, exhausted but determined, and at the door to Bellamy's dark room, she hikes her up.</p><p>He lays in bed, staring at the wall. Octavia says, "<em>Bell</em>."</p><p>Clarke watches him flinch, but he doesn't lift his head from the pillow. Dragging her, Clarke slots a knocked out Octavia in behind Bellamy. Then, she steps in front of him. His lips chatter.</p><p>His beaten gaze shakes on her.</p><p>She slides in next to him, and his skin is cool on hers but tender. Clarke rests her head beneath his chin, breathing heavily as tears fill her eyes. "It's over," she whispers into his curls, unaware of what has ended.</p><p>
  <em>Thump. Thump.</em>
</p><p>He nuzzles in and she doesn't think he heard her. It's okay. Her eyes slip closed, and she begins to heal. The snow has melted, and the soil is rich. Spring has come.</p><p>It is the season of new beginnings.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>She was right. In the morning, his eyes have fire, and his laugh has strength.</p><p>It's a start, but you have to start somewhere.</p><p>..</p><p>The first week is tough, the first month? He can <em>walk</em>.</p><p>When he wakes up, the heavy thump of Clarke's heart against his chest, he is groggy. He can't decipher if he is dreaming.</p><p>She kisses him between the brows.</p><p><em>Thump. Thump.</em> He closes his eyes.</p><p>In the second week, he stands tall and hugs Clarke full of strength and love: his brave, brave girl. He picks her off her feet. Octavia is the first to laugh as colour fills her cheeks. Lincoln greets her at Bellamy's summoning. He watches them embrace, a glowing hollowness, wrapped around a goddess: it's odd to remember they grew up together. O hugs Clarke, pulling back to say, "We need to celebrate!"</p><p>She hugs him next, so fast he can't get a word out.</p><p>He looks to Clarke after, who shrugs, turning to follow Octavia. She stops, glancing back at him, before rushing to peck him on the cheek. He snags her wrist before she can take off again.</p><p>"Thank you," he says.</p><p>What Clarke did was a risk, and one she hadn't used her head for. He makes a choice like that too, just now (though the stakes are a tad lower), when he chooses to kiss her just over her brow, fully lucid, and aware. "Let's have a party."</p><p> </p><p>. .</p><p> </p><p>Just like the wedding, it is to happen in the throne room.</p><p>His invited guests were never really his friends, but they send confirmation mail when they all begin to feel better. They will attend. Pike will not, and neither will Diyoza, but that's not personal. She doesn't like anyone.</p><p>"They should be here soon," he says, attempting nonchalance. Octavia lifts some streamers with Lincoln.</p><p>Clarke nudges his elbow. "It'll be great." He smiles at her, cheeks tense. "You're it," she whispers, poking him, and a game of tag is played between three gods, too many demons, and a couple ghosts.</p><p>Niylah arrives on Miller's boat, confused as to why they're all running.</p><p>"It's tag!" Octavia shouts. "Miller, you too!"</p><p>"How will they know what-"</p><p>"-they're <em>gods</em>," Octavia shouts.</p><p>"They'll figure it out."</p><p>And they run. He chases Clarke down, tugging at her wrists. They lose their balance, collapsing into the sand. It is wet, and dark beneath him, and honestly, he doesn't even wait before pressing his lips to hers. His mind catches up after he's done it, the fear too, but she tastes like freedom when she kisses back, so he lets it go. They melt into the sand. The imprint of books burn in his memory, and all the death.</p><p>They are free, and they choose to spend freedom together.</p><p> </p><p>. .</p><p> </p><p>They walk into the throne room, where many of their players have settled, tuckered out from the game. Octavia is laughing in the centre, trying to get Miller to place the instruments in the right spot. Jasper, Monty and Wick toss a stone over a ghost's head, and the little girl laughs. Abby watches from the steps, amused. Raven throws her arms up, asking for a pass. Wick obliges her, and she passes to Jasper, who tosses to Monty. Monty doesn't catch it; Aphrodite does. Harper gives the rock to the girl, mouthing 'run'. Off the ghost flies, Murphy trailing after her.</p><p>"That's Madi," Clarke breathes. His shoulders tense. "That's <em>Madi</em>."</p><p>She is stomping her pale blue feet when Murphy tackles her. <em>Hard</em>. Bellamy feels a spike of angered anxiety. She laughs, because she's a ghost. Emori runs up, and kicks Murphy off her: literally <em>kicks</em>. Murphy <em>oofs</em>, as the stone rolls.</p><p>It clatters to a stop before Bellamy.</p><p>All the fun halts. He nudges the rock at Madi, who bends to pick it up. Her eyes are hesitant.</p><p>A moment. A breath.</p><p>"Gimme?" Clarke asks, holding out her hand for the rock. Madi grins, and obliges, running off as Clarke throws it to Raven.</p><p>As they continue to play, Wells wraps his arms around her. "I missed you."</p><p>She pats his back, closing her eyes. "You too."</p><p>"Where's the music?" Octavia asks as Wells pulls away. All heads turn to her. "We're <em>free</em>." A shout rises from Murphy, and Wells lets out a polite, "excuse me," before rushing away to pummel him.</p><p>Clarke takes his fingers in hers as light music begins to play. The ghost stops before her again, eyes twinkling and afraid. Her feet are soot stained. Clarke shakes Madi's hair with a tiny smile.</p><p>She runs off again, running free.</p><p><em>Free</em>. It concusses in his skull. If he's free, Clarke's free, and Miller's free: Roma, Bree, Emori. Monty, Murphy, Jasper. Wells, Raven, Niylah. Harper, Gabriel, Diyoza. Free to screw their lives up and love their hearts six feet under. His demons and his- <em>something</em>. He doesn't know what the other gods are to him. Abby? An unwelcomed… <em>acquaintance</em>. But the rest? If they stood up for him, they'd go down too. Like Clarke had. What was he expecting? Would he have stood up for them? <em>No.</em> For Clarke? If he'd known her, yes, same with Octavia.</p><p>"Stop thinking," Clarke says.</p><p>Bellamy nudges her elbow. "Says the overthinker."</p><p>"When the overthinker thinks you're overthinking, you're <em>definitely</em> overthinking." That was one hell of a sentence. He grins.</p><p>Bellamy watches his demon invite a god to dance. Emori is a brave one, asking the god of war like that. <em>Free to make bad choices,</em> he thinks, grinning. Murphy is bruised from her kick, but he says yes.</p><p>"It all worked out in the end," Abby says next to them, staring out at the dance floor. Miller asks Jackson, a dryad from Demeter's garden, to dance.</p><p>"Not how you wanted," Clarke answers.</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Even if he died, I wouldn't have come back."</p><p>"I've realized." Abby lifts her gaze to them, and Bellamy feels a surge of insecurity.</p><p>The music is soft, understated. A lyre, and a flute. "You could've lifted it anytime," he says.</p><p>"It wasn't personal." Abby examines the floor looking at the fun. Bellamy wonders if this is what she had with Kane. "I was trying to kill Charles. You were collateral."</p><p>He's always collateral, background noise, going down for things he didn't do, and released for the things he did, because the world has no justice. "Not to me he wasn't." Clarke tugs his hand, away from her mother, away from it all. A warmth fills his chest. She turns. Her mouth tilts up and Clarke slips her nose into the crook of his neck. They sway.</p><p>
  <em>Free. Free.</em>
</p><p>Abby's eyes meet his, then glance at Clarke—his arms tighten around her: she hums—and Abby slights a brow, staring at him.</p><p>She mouths, "<em>I'm sorry,"</em> looking down at her daughter.</p><p>He mouths back, "<em>tell her that,"</em> hoping his lips aren't hard to read.</p><p>Clarke peaks over her shoulder, and he slows his feet as the mother and daughter catch each other's gaze. Abby's eyes fill with sorrow; <em>I'm sorry. </em>Unsaid apologies. His eyes squeeze shut, a simple summon: <em>Kane</em>.</p><p>He kisses her temple; Clarke allows the river of stress run through her.</p><p>A ghost's pale arms circle Clarke in a hug. She freezes, staring at him. The child passses through her and settles between them.</p><p>"Hi."</p><p>He's never heard a more adorably scared hello. Clarke smiled down softly, patting her head. "Hi," she whispers.</p><p>Then, the music picks up.</p><p>Clarke's gaze flicks to his, sparking. His demons laugh as they combine harp and footsteps to a quick beat. Madi laughs, dancing with them briefly before slipping away to play.</p><p>He throws Clarke around, clutching her wrist like he can't let go. She laughs. His blood rushes through his ears.</p><p>Bouncing on her feet, Clarke kisses him. It all quiets.</p><p>He only hears the blood. Feels her heart through her chest and through his. The eyes of their friends are on the back of his neck. A blush rushes through him as he smiles into her mouth, so wide it hurts. Their lips are more slotted together than kissing, trying to hold something that was impossible for so long.</p><p>A hand collides between Bellamy's shoulder blades teasingly, and he grunts. Murphy cackles. Her fingers slip into his hair and he forgets to be angry. He kisses her, and kisses her.</p><p>
  <em>We're free. We're free.</em>
</p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p> </p><p>His hands shake.</p><p>The boat shakes too, and Clarke sits calmly next to him. Tarry black water rushes beneath them. The catacombs above are carved stone, sediment layers visible. She grabs his hand.</p><p>"We'll stay away from humans," she murmurs.</p><p>He nods, squeezing her fingers. Miller rows at the front of the boat, glancing back every once in a while.</p><p>"One last ride," Miller says.</p><p>A good friend, a loyal one: it isn't to be the last ride because he is kidding, no, he knows Bellamy is never coming back.</p><p>That is, if the grass stays green, and the wolves teeth gleam.</p><p>They pull up to a dark cavern; his first step is on the damp rock, cool beneath his feet. His knees almost buckle. Drips echo from stalactites. Miller's eyes are hard: Bellamy turns to him, and the black water runs harmlessly as Clarke steps off the boat, joining him.</p><p>"Take the day off every once in a while, yeah?"</p><p>Miller grins. "I've got deliveries to make, and we know Jasper won't do them."</p><p>Bellamy breathes a laugh. Hermes, god of trade and lord of laziness. "Still."</p><p>Miller opens his mouth to argue.</p><p>Clarke says, "Miller."</p><p>Lips clap shut. "Yes, ma'am."</p><p>Down the black river, Miller rows. He watches him go. "Stop stalling," she murmurs, pressing her palm on his shoulder. He doesn't argue, but he does refuse her help. He wants to do this by himself, take his first step, and then his second. A toddler, learning to walk. He makes it to the mouth of the cave. The sun pierces his eyes.</p><p>A line is between the stone and the grass, a dark gray sediment versus a rich green, spattered with pale yellows. Wind flickers through lightly, shaking the ruddy orange leaves on the branches.</p><p>It's been so long.</p><p>What if he takes a step, and there's black beneath his heel? What if it was all a ploy, and the others were in on it, and Pike didn't follow through on his bargain? <em>What if</em>. His first step has him dissociating. His second tickles his ankles, and his toes squeeze unruly blades between its ranks.</p><p>His ankles stop working, and the ground catches him.</p><p>In the grass, the sun beats down on him. The back of his eyes sting and he tries to hold the tears. He fights them. Then, Clarke touches him, just a brush of the shoulder. They flow, dripping down his cheeks and into the grass. The soil is damp beneath his knees, and the grass tickles his ankles. The clouds whistle by as brown leaves crumble between his fingers,</p><p><em>We're free. We're free</em>.</p><p>Free to make their own choices, and their own mistakes. Free to love her, and free to cry in the grass because for the first time in thousands of years, he doesn't kill everything he touches.</p><p>The spring has come.</p><p> </p><p>. .</p><p> </p><p>The winter comes faster.</p><p>Neither of them are particularly accepted. He is a man of colour, and she is a woman who thinks.</p><p>So they stay away. Honestly, half of his avoidance is the fear of himself. They're very lucky. They don't feel cold, and they can't freeze. Still, he holds her close.</p><p>In fact, it is snowing when he fucks her again.</p><p>He picks an odd time, truly, but she sprinkles a ball of snow at him. and he pushes her, and she topples down into the bank, pulling him with her. Her breath is shallow, as her arm steady on his shoulders.</p><p><em>So pretty</em>. A silhouette in the white.</p><p>Staring at her, he feels his stomach tighten. Her knees lift to his hips, and she whispers, "Bellamy…" Her eyes warm, darkening. Her hair is matted in the snow and sticky with icicles, cheeks pink with cold. He kisses her ear, and she gasps.</p><p>The absence of her was excruciating for so many years, and his patience is thin.</p><p>Snow tickles his nose as he kisses and giggles his over her body. Ear, collar, wrist. He feels himself harden at the way she consumes him.</p><p>He grabs her breasts in his hands and squeezes. Clarke throws her head back, laughing as he grins into her neck and squeezes again.</p><p>"Roll over," she gasps. He realizes she has no leverage.</p><p>Before he knows it, there is a goddess at his feet, sucking his cock. He cups her jaw and the back of her neck, as he stares down at her. She drags her tongue from his balls to the head and he groans loudly up into the sky, where no one hears him. No one's watching. No one <em>cares</em>. Snow trickles down, melting on her skin and in his gasps of air.</p><p>When the pleasure nearly overtakes him, he lifts her to his lips by her jaw.</p><p>Their breath fogs up her face, forming clumps of ice on her lashes. He rolls them over, pushing her into the snow and on her side.</p><p>He pumps himself slowly, moving forward. She already worked him up, and he doesn't think he'll last.</p><p>She grabs his right hand, tugging it to rest at her stomach. Fondness bursts in his chest. Using his left hand, he lines up. Clarke kinks her neck to look at him. Her eyes were dark, and trusting.</p><p>Then, he is in her, wet, and soft, and warm, and <em>home.</em></p><p>"Love you," she pants as he moves again and <em>again</em>. At the words, he freezes. She squeezes his fingers, tucking her pink face into the bank. He swallows down the questions.</p><p>He thrusts, and she moans, and he whispers, "say it again."</p><p>She looks him in the eye as she rocks with him, back and forth: between the syllables, she murmurs, "I… love you." He just erupts right there, falling into her shoulder. Shame simmers under his skin, clashing with the euphoria. "I have you." She wraps her arms around his neck. "I love you."</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut.</p><p>The tingle of melting snow reminds him of duty, so he slowly pulls out of her, moving his fingers down her body, the lush curves and creases, and she is so beautiful, he thought. Last time they did this, they were at the top of the world. This time, they are an inconsequential remnant of it.</p><p>This time they both wear scars.</p><p>He slips his fingers into her and rubs her clit slowly, relaxed. "You have me?" he asks. She twitched, rolling onto her back and spreading her legs.</p><p>"Yeah," she humphed as he added pressure to her clit. Her hands lift to rest on his shoulders. "I have you."</p><p><em>You love her. </em>It is love and it has been there for a while. So his fingers speed up, but his thumb continues it slow circle of laps around her clit.</p><p>It takes a minute of her moaning, maybe two, before her hips start to twitch and she's losing her breath, calling his name.</p><p>He cuddles into her when she settles.</p><p>His gaze sticks to nowhere as she pokes his ribs. He can't look at her, but at least he can say it. "I love you." Tension washes off of her, and he feels a little guilty for taking so long to say it back. But it's out there now, those words, and she is still radiant and breathing. White dusty snow surrounds him, instead of hollow ashes.</p><p>She murmurs into his hair, "I missed this so much."</p><p>"What, Princess?" he goads softly. "Haven't had a good orgasm in a while?"</p><p>She pats him on the shoulder sarcastically. "I didn't mean it like that…"</p><p>Snow is slammed into his face, exploding, and he hears the goddess of the harvest giggle beneath him. He holds her in a field of white dust, instead of ashes, instead of gold: and he closes his eyes, hoping the spring never comes to interrupt his ecstasy.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>The forest is thick, and it stays that way, step after step after step. The air is crisp, and harsh on his vocal cords. The puddles of spring began to turn a week ago.</p><p>He is aware of what he wants, and eventually he finds it between two tall evergreens. Bellamy turns on her, holding her hands tightly as her gaze searches him and the forest. He knows he's a confusing man, one of contradictions. <em>An oxymoron,</em> she would tease.</p><p>"It's Walden," he says, pulling away.</p><p>He can see the beauty forming in the cool blue her eyes. Her lips open and close minutely in thought. He presses a kiss to her temple, whispering, "Don't overthink it."</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>They inquire Wells to help with structuring the place. He is willing. Octavia, Murphy, Emori, and Miller help them build it.</p><p>It's an experience: Wells and Murphy gripe each other and get into more than a few fist fights, and Bellamy can't help but goad them. God of war versus the god of the sea, and he's shallow enough to want to see who will win. Clarke ruins his fun.</p><p>He can't help but grin though as she bosses them around and makes them feel bad for being so childish.</p><p>Every couple of days, Raven brings them food from Demeter. The cabin comes together nicely with Wells' architectural knowledge. They lay the logs in a crisscross pattern, supporting base with more than a few rocks. The roof is a challenge. Miller falls once, and Murphy laughs before he miraculously falls too, and perhaps as Wells smugly stands from where he clearly pushed him, Clarke nimbly pushes him too.</p><p>"Wow," Wells mutters, staring at her back. "What happened to maturity?" The sun is setting, leaving the cabin in an orange glow.</p><p>She shrugs.</p><p>He only shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Their cabin comes out well on the inside too. It is one floor, with one room, and a fireplace surrounded by stones. Two whole walls are lined with empty spruce bookcases. He stands before them.</p><p>He dreams of filling them. Clarke brings him his first one.</p><p>Or his first five; in her arms, silhouetted in the door frame, she holds novellas. "Miller has them at the Styx." She waddles awkwardly, and his lips quirk at the thought of her wandering through the forest all the way here.</p><p>It takes them half a day of trips to get them all home, and they leave them scattered across their home, and it is dark by the time he begins sorting the shelves.</p><p>Lanterns alight the room as she whispers, "Come to bed."</p><p>"I will," he promises, sliding hardcover in with a paperback. She goes to sleep before him, leaving the door to their room ajar.</p><p>The last book he slides on the shelf before he heads to bed? It's <em>Walden</em>.</p><p>. .</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>~fin</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>.: epilogue :.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>to come</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Persephone: Clarke</p><p>Hades: Bellamy</p><p>Poseidon: Wells</p><p>Zeus: Pike</p><p>Demeter: Abby</p><p>Dionysos: Monty</p><p>Hephaestus: Raven</p><p>Hecate: Octavia</p><p>Artemis: Niylah</p><p>Hermes: Jasper</p><p>Aphrodite: Harper</p><p>Apollo: Gabriel</p><p>Athena: Diyoza</p><p>Hera: Hannah Green</p><p>Ares: Murphy</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Persephone: Clarke</p><p>Hades: Bellamy</p><p>Poseidon: Wells</p><p>Zeus: Pike</p><p>Demeter: Abby</p><p>Dionysos: Monty</p><p>Hephaestus: Raven</p><p>Artemis: Niylah</p><p>Hermes: Jasper</p><p>Aphrodite: Harper</p><p>Apollo: Gabriel</p><p>Athena: Diyoza</p><p>Hera: Hannah Green</p><p>Ares: Murphy</p><p>. .</p><p>If I've made any glaring historical mistakes or plot holes, please let me know :) thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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